


The Rest Is Still Unwritten

by labelladonna99



Series: We were wrecks before we crashed into each other (Wall Verse) [5]
Category: Heroes (TV)
Genre: Angst, Episode: s04e17 The Wall, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Male Slash, Romance, Slash, petlar, wall verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 10:28:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16195691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labelladonna99/pseuds/labelladonna99
Summary: The continuing saga of what happened between Peter and Sylar behind the wall.





	The Rest Is Still Unwritten

 

 _Remorse._  Sylar opened the spiral bound notebook to the first page where weeks ago he had written, in large block capitals centered across the top margin, the word he was beginning to despise. He had etched it in red pen and underlined it for emphasis. Then he had laid the pen to rest and waited. For what, he didn’t quite know. Inspiration, perhaps, to kindle the emotions he ought to have. When no spark of feeling lit, other than the exasperation of not feeling, he had picked up the blue pen. Why blue? Why not continue in red? At least red made a macabre sort of sense. He had no idea. He had been instructed to keep a journal so that’s what he was doing. It was supposed to catalogue the needs and desires that had motivated his blood-soaked journey, although that wasn’t how Peter phrased it when he presented the idea. _The Life and Crimes of Gabriel Gray aka Sylar_ was Sylar’s sardonic title for his memoir, but lately his customary dark wit failed to amuse him.

Thirty-two days later, it wasn’t turning out to be much of a diary. Sylar doubted that journaling would unearth any useful insight to light his path forward. Every time he tried, only the one word sounded in his mind like a mantra. It was a thought, so there was that. It just lacked any context. Since Peter had given him the journal and suggested he try capturing his thoughts about his past, Sylar had struggled with the futility of this assignment.

Should he be writing a goddamned confession, as if the nightmares that reanimated his victims to accuse him each night hadn’t been enough torture? Regrets? Oh he had a few. Many regrets, too numerous to count. But the concept of remorse was mostly an abstraction to him.

Peter didn’t understand. How could he when he was a human divining rod for other people’s emotions? With his original ability gone and his empathy dulled, Peter didn’t read people as well as he used to, but he still swam in a sea of humanity’s miseries and joys. How could he begin to understand the dark, empty cavern where Sylar’s soul should have been?

His failure to be as sorry for his killing spree as Peter thought he should be was one of their most frequent arguments. Sylar _was_ sorry, more so than he could ever express to Peter. Did Peter think he _liked_ being a monster? His nightmares should have been proof that he was every bit as tormented with guilt as he deserved to be. He just couldn’t connect being sorry with having any feelings about the people he had hurt. He had known enough about his victims to track them, but their families and friends? He had no idea who they were, couldn’t conjure their faces and lacked whatever kind of imagination was required to stand in the shoes of another. It was different, of course, with his fellow captive.

Peter’s grief was real, visceral to Sylar in a way that the suffering of all the nameless, faceless people whose loved ones he’d murdered was not. None of them were here. Sylar didn’t have to look at their faces every day or witness the wreckage of their lives. He didn’t have to live with them and confront their pain in a world where there was nothing else to do but watch them mourn. It wasn’t that his inability to relate to his victims and their loved ones didn’t matter. Sylar knew that it mattered very much. Even if he never got out of this mental prison, it mattered. He would never regain his full humanity until he found his way towards remorse. Until that happened, he could not be redeemed. And despite Peter’s apparent, unfathomable faith in him and his promises to help, Sylar was beginning to doubt all over again that it could ever happen.

Still. He dutifully wrote in the journal as if his life depended on it. He’d filled thirty-two sheets of lined notebook paper, front and back, in two neat columns per page, careful to let the ink dry after completing one column so that he wouldn’t smudge it with his left hand as he moved on to the next. Like a chastened school boy, he wrote his penance, the same word over and over as if writing it could manifest the required emotion.

“Writing fifty times I must not be so, oh oh oh,” he muttered to himself, recalling the lyric and even the melody although he couldn’t quite place the song. Covering twenty-five lines per page times two columns times sixty-four pages, he had penned the word thirty-two hundred times, one hundred for each day since he’d begun. Fifty times was for amateurs. Yet he didn’t feel any different. Nothing had changed.

Sylar was pretty sure this wasn’t what Peter had in mind when he’d arrived at Sylar’s apartment just over a month ago with his backpack bulging with books, pens and notebooks. Stupid, naive Peter who thought he could tame the monstrosity that lurked beneath Sylar’s skin.

***

Sylar had been standing by the window, watching but not really seeing the pattern of dancing light and shadow cast by the rustling leaves of the curb tree in front of his building. He turned around at the sound of Peter’s habitual quick knock that was followed by the apartment door opening. First thing in the morning, Peter always waited for Sylar to answer the door but otherwise, when his arrival was part of their coming and going throughout the day, he would knock and then enter.

Hey,” Peter said, shrugging off his backpack and laying it near the coat hook by the door. He looked clean and alert, not the sweaty exhausted wreck the wall usually made of him. But that was to be expected, since it had been raining that morning and Peter couldn’t hammer in the rain. “How’s it going?”

Sylar skipped the polite trivialities and cut right to what had been on his mind since breakfast, when Peter hadn’t arrived at his apartment as was their routine when weather kept him from the wall. “Where have you been all day?”

Peter blinked and pulled his head back, a gesture that Sylar had come to interpret as “ _what the fuck is that all about”_ but his response was non-committal. “I went to the library. Remember I mentioned to you yesterday that I was thinking I’d spend the day there if it rained?”

“Oh. I guess I missed that. It still doesn’t answer why you didn’t show up for breakfast? You always eat here when it’s raining.”

“I’m pretty sure I’ve said this before, Sylar, but until you sign my paycheck, you’re not entitled to police my schedule.”

Sylar could feel the heat building from his frustration. He valued precision, routine and order and Peter’s brain didn’t conform to the structure Sylar tried to impose. He was like a bumblebee communicating via elaborate patterns of movement. Peter always got to where he meant to go, but not necessarily in a straight line.

“Don’t be so dramatic. It’s a simple courtesy when you divert from a routine to let the people involved know, so they don’t wait and wonder.”

“Okay,” Peter raised his hands in concession. “I’m sorry that I kept you waiting. I’ll be more clear next time.” After a pause, he asked, “Were you thinking I might not come back? Is that it? I’ve already said that I won’t leave again...at least not without telling you.”

“Let’s just drop it. I appreciate your apology.” Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Sylar turned back to the window, muttering under his breath. “I’m always going to wonder.”

“I wish I could fix that,” came the response from behind him and then there were footsteps retreating to the kitchen.

“There are a lot of things you can’t fix, Peter, and wishing won’t make it so,” Sylar said, though he wasn’t sure Peter could hear him.

As the afternoon faded into evening, Peter took it upon himself to make dinner. It was another diversion from routine because Sylar had learned long ago not to trust Peter with food preparation. Peter had many talents but cooking wasn’t one of them; he could burn water. Sylar listened to him bustling around in the kitchen and tried to ignore it. He had been on the couch for the last hour with a book and although he’d turned multiple pages, he couldn’t have said what he’d just read. His mind had been racing all day and despite Peter’s apology, he hadn’t been able to settle his thoughts.

Placing the paperback facedown on the coffee table, Sylar headed to the kitchen to inspect whatever disaster Peter might be cooking up. If he were going to be poisoned, Sylar preferred to know that his last meal would at least be edible. So far, so good, he observed. There was spaghetti boiling in a large pot while the sauce simmered in a smaller pan. Peter, meanwhile, was drying romaine lettuce leaves with a paper towel. Nearby, a salad bowl contained sliced tomatoes, slivers of red onion, and a handful of sunflower seeds.

“What are you doing?” Sylar inquired.

Peter looked up from his task with an amiable smile. “I didn’t want to bother you….you seem like you have a lot on your mind.”

“Why don’t you use the salad spinner to dry the lettuce?”

“A salad spinner? That’s a thing?”

Trying not to laugh at his companion’s valiant effort in the face of near complete ineptitude, Sylar reached over Peter’s head to grab the salad spinner from a cabinet and instructed him on how to use it. They both survived dinner and Peter insisted on helping with clean up, too.

“You’re being awfully kind this evening,” Sylar commented.

“I’d like to think I’m always kind to you. Mostly.”

“Touché. I suppose you’re as nice as you can be under the circumstances, which is saying a lot. Most people wouldn’t be. I think most people would have killed me on sight.”

“Probably,” Peter agreed absently.

“Lucky for me that you’re not most people, huh?”

“Yup.”

“Am I nice to you, Peter?”

“I’m sure it isn’t any easier for you to be stuck with me than the other way around,” Peter said, glancing up from his task. “It’s all a matter of perspective, right? Most people in your situation would have killed me on sight.”

“Hmm. Good point if not for three years alone. I’m not sure most people would kill the first person they’d seen in years, even if it was their worst enemy. Anyway, I may be your worst enemy, but you’re not mine. There are people I’ve hated far more.”

“I know. Bennet, Parkman. My mother. I’m low man on the totem pole. Let’s change the subject. Tell me about your day.”

“I spent it writing a hundred times ‘I must not be so.’”

“What?” Peter looked up from tossing the salad with a quizzical frown.

“The journal. Would you like to see?”

“If you want me to.”

Sylar dropped his dish towel and went in search of the journal. A few moments later, he returned with the notebook, brandishing it when Peter turned around at his approach. Peter scrutinized Sylar as if his eyeballs were recording every millisecond, but he made no move to retrieve the notebook from Sylar’s hand. Puzzled, Sylar laid it on the kitchen counter as he watched Peter watching him.

“Show me,” Peter said in a soft, wary voice, sounding as if he expected to learn something shocking. A revelation perhaps.

Sylar opened the notebook to page one and folded his arms, leaning against the counter while Peter scanned the page. It was a revelation, alright. He was willing to bet it wasn’t the one Peter had been expecting.

Glancing back at Sylar with his brow furrowed in question, Peter asked, “Is there more?”

“Lots more,” said Sylar and waited for Peter to turn the pages, but he didn’t, so Sylar did it for him.

Peter stared at the pages covered in Sylar’s neat handwriting, the one word marching across the lined paper.

“I don’t understand,” Peter said, shaking his head at the notebook. He searched Sylar’s face for an explanation that would not be forthcoming.

“That makes two of us.” The taller man maintained his casual stance against the counter and wore a closed expression that revealed nothing of the hours of frustration he’d put into the not-diary, but the inanity of what he’d done with the notebook spoke for itself. He hadn’t made any progress at all.

“Um, okay.” Peter went back to drying the spaghetti pot.

“That’s it? It was your idea for me to write a manifesto and as you can see, I’ve failed. I don’t know what the point is.”

Peter shrugged. “Then forget it. Don’t do it.” He gathered the dried utensils and placed them one by one in the drawer.

“I thought you wanted to understand me? You said I needed to feel remorse. I can’t do it. I don’t think I have that in me.”

“Sylar, I want a lot of things. Not all of them are about you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Peter said, drying his hands and setting down the dish towel to give Sylar his complete attention, “that helping you and understanding you have nothing to do with each other. The journal is for you. I don’t have to read it. And if it doesn’t work for you, we’ll try something else, alright? Me understanding you? That’s for my benefit.”

“How does that help you?”

“I’m not sure if it does. But I’d like to find out.”

“You know what would help me.” It wasn’t a question.

“I know what you _think_ would help you. Obviously I don’t agree. It only complicates things.” Peter crouched to return the pot and saucepan to their places below the counter.

“You want it too,” Sylar said, stepping forward to invade Peter’s space as Peter straightened to standing. “You’re the one who encouraged me to kiss you. You liked it. Admit it.” He moved closer as he spoke, still burning from the memory of their one and only shared kiss.

“Yeah. I do. And I did.” Peter breathed out softly and closed his eyes as Sylar smoothed strands of hair away from his face.

“I’m not denying that we have some kind of … chemistry,” Peter said. Now Sylar was toying with the neck of Peter’s t-shirt, stroking along his collarbone with one finger, gratified to observe the other man’s accelerating breaths. It was fun to see Peter rattled by the proximity.

Sylar brought his face close enough to inhale Peter’s scent and buried his hand in the hair at the nape of the other man’s neck. Peter liked having his hair touched and Sylar played it up, splaying his fingers through the silky strands in a tickling trail across Peter’s scalp. Peter kept talking as if nothing was happening but the pauses in his speech told a different story. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea to take it … any further … when there’s still so much … bad feeling, y’know? Excuse me if I … don't think of hate as … an aphrodisiac.”

“Oh that is so not true. If you could only see yourself right now,” Sylar murmured. “I could devour you.” He  trailed his free hand down the front of Peter’s shirt and let his fingers come to rest just inside the waistband of the other man’s jeans.

“Sylar…..”

“Peter….” he mimicked, dragging the name out like a breath. “Use your imagination. Think of the passion.”

“Stop.” Peter’s hand was flat against Sylar’s chest but he didn’t push.

“I will if you make me. Are you sure that’s what you want?” Sylar whispered, his mouth against Peter’s ear. It took all his self-control not to shove him against the counter and smash their bodies together. Despite Peter’s verbal protest, he offered no real resistance, which Sylar took as an invitation to continue luring him into sin. He popped the snap on Peter’s jeans and was rewarded with a groan as he eased the zipper down. He wanted to kiss Peter but somehow that seemed dangerously intimate. So far, it was all systems go and he wasn’t about to ruin it. Sylar settled for his lips on Peter’s neck while his heartbeat kept time with Peter’s. He was painfully hard. Peter clutched at Sylar’s shirt as Sylar sucked in a mouthful of flesh at the base of the EMT’s neck, alternating tongue and teeth, biting and sucking.

“Oh god, Sylar, I can’t ... do this.”

Sylar released the suction on his partner’s neck. “Shhh, Peter, it’s okay,” he soothed. “You don’t have to do anything. Just let me … I’ll take good care of you.” He bit Peter’s neck again as his hand slipped into Peter’s underwear, victory at his fingertips. Even if he had to delay his own release until he was alone, it was worth it to be touching Peter like this. To finally get Peter off would be a greater thrill than acquiring a hundred new abilities.

A sound that was half gasp half sob halted Sylar’s approach. He pulled his head back to study Peter’s face, fearing he’d misread the signals. But how? The evidence of Peter’s arousal was well within Sylar’s grasp yet he couldn’t discern what Peter’s expression - eyes squeezed shut, lips pressed together - was telling him. Was that a grimace of ecstasy or pain? “Are you okay?” he asked.

“I need...please don’t make me force it. Stop. I need...you...to stop.”

Embarrassed at having gotten it so wrong, and contrite at the sight of what now appeared to be obvious distress, Sylar withdrew. “Alright. I’m stopping.” Peter’s posture loosened, he opened his eyes and exhaled, with a look that could only be described as relief. “I’m sorry, I misunderstood…” Sylar smoothed Peter’s mussed hair and adjusted his clothing, petting him as if he were a child until Peter grabbed Sylar’s hands and held them still. “Cut that out,” Peter said. “I’m fine.”

“I wasn’t sure. It sounded like I’d hurt you.”

“No, I was just trying not to punch you.”

“You could have pushed me away. You’ve done it before,” Sylar said, perplexed by yet another change in their usual pattern.

“I know that.” Peter nodded. “I could have.” He tilted his head and deadlocked his gaze on Sylar’s.

“Why didn’t you?” Sylar’s eyebrows gathered in a confused frown.

“Because I shouldn’t have to. You need to respect my boundaries. And I want you to understand that’s not how you treat a friend, or anyone else.”

“You were aroused!” Sylar said, ready to accuse before thinking better of it and retreating half a step. “Weren’t you?”

“I was.” Peter said, gently. He blew a gust of air through his lips and scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Ahhh, how do I say this….? I don’t want to be lured and tempted into doing what I’ve told you I don’t want. How my body responds is beside the point. Do you understand?” Dark eyes shaded beneath dark brows gave Peter an intensity his face lacked in more direct lighting than that provided by the kitchen’s overhead fluorescent fixture.

Sylar shrugged. A sarcastic retort tried to muscle its way out of his mouth, his habitual response to humiliation. Hell, it was his response to most things but he stifled it. “I’m not sure I do understand. We both want the same thing don’t we? I don’t see the harm in … a little relief.” Peter’s gaze hardened, causing Sylar to backtrack again. “Alright. I’m listening.”

“Thank you for listening. Because you need to hear this. We _don’t_ want the same thing. You’ve done a lot of harm, to a lot of people, including me. I know — “ Peter held up a hand, stopping Sylar from interjecting with another apology. “I know you’re sorry about … Nathan. I know you’re trying to change. I see it. I appreciate it. I’m asking you to believe me.”

Thoroughly chastened now, Sylar could only say that yes, he believed Peter. Peter was many things and some of them were infuriating to Sylar, but he wasn’t a liar.

“Look, I think I should go now,” Peter said. “I’m not angry with you, okay? I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Sylar wanted to protest but it was probably for the best that Peter leave. They were walking that tightrope where the tension could easily snap and misunderstandings would fall to angry shouts or punches. They should end on a positive note. Yet he couldn’t resist one final entreaty.

“Peter, you said that how I acted isn’t how I should treat a friend. Does that mean …”

Peter cut him off. “It means that people need to learn and respect each other’s limits. It has to be earned. Not just by you. If you tell me your limits, I’ll honor them. Deal?”

Sylar nodded, glad now that Peter was going back to his own place. He was suddenly twelve years old and being invited to join a classmate at the lunch table for the first time. He was at once touched, absurdly grateful and mortified to find his throat constricted over a tiny act of reciprocity.

“Sure,” he managed to say without his voice crackling like a teenager’s. “It’s a deal.”

Sylar waited until he was ready for bed, teeth brushed and face washed, before allowing himself to relieve his pent up lust. Today was the closest he’d ever gotten to having his way with Peter and it wasn’t likely to happen again anytime soon. It wouldn’t be enough to just rub one out and go to sleep. No, he was going to make it last. He stroked himself, taking his time to build speed and friction and then easing back from the edge. Repeating the pattern several times, he tortured his needy libido until his entire body was humming like a live wire and he couldn’t contain the jolting electrical current. His climax swept away all thought in a frenzy that forced air from his lungs in a loud cry. That night his sleep was blissfully dreamless.

***

Back at his apartment, Peter took a cold shower, laughing at what a cliche he was. After drying off and dressing for bed, he sat cross-legged on the mattress, closed his eyes and meditated, letting go of the ever-present stress of living in a too quiet world with a far too unquiet companion. It often seemed that the dreary sameness of every day in this empty city would go on forever. Peter had to remind himself that things had changed. Sylar had agreed to help him _and_ had asked for Peter’s help. Peter wasn’t sure which of those was more momentous. Considering Sylar’s ego and his inability to tolerate more than a short session of Peter’s guitar lessons, it was probably the latter.

Peter was changing, too. He’d been in survival mode for so long, he hadn’t realized how much he had always been influenced by other people —  not only by what they did but what they felt. Being driven by fear was no way to live, he’d recently decided. Sylar was right that Peter was impulsive and too often leapt without a thought for where he would land. He was probably never going to be good at planning and he reserved the right to listen to his heart and trust his gut in any given moment. That didn’t mean he couldn’t decide on some things in advance, to better align his behavior with his principles. To act instead of react.

He still had no idea how to fulfill his mission. The wall wasn’t real. None of it was — not Sylar’s place, nor his, nor any of the landmarks they passed each day. Only he and Sylar were real and everything else was a manifestation of their thoughts. Knowing all of that did nothing to map out a path. The wall had to come down if he was going to save Emma. Somehow that mission was inextricably linked to his more immediate goal of helping Sylar find a way forward. He was pretty sure the only way that was happening was if he went along for the ride  with the former killer. What, exactly, that might mean was something he’d have to figure out.

The good news was that he was beginning to see signposts. Okay, it was weird how Sylar had chosen to use the notebook but he could have refused to do anything with it when Peter had first suggested he try journaling. Peter couldn’t fathom what Sylar had hoped to accomplish with the incessant repetition of the word _remorse_ , nor why Sylar had wanted him to see it but he suspected the latter was a dig at him. “See, your stupid ideas don’t work.” _Whatever,_ Peter thought. _I never claimed to be a therapist_. So the journal wasn’t going to open a window on Sylar’s past to expose the experiences that made him a killer. Peter hadn’t expected Sylar to divulge his secrets that easily, anyway. At least Sylar had made an effort and that was a start. Peter had other ideas to try. He would just press every button until he found one that would work.

He slid between the sheets, laid his head on the pillow and slept. In his dream, he was soaring over New York City and from his height, he couldn’t see the dirt, the grime, the way people used others for good or ill and were in turn used themselves. There was only the open sky, blindingly blue and reflected in the shiny skyscraper windows. For the first time in years, Peter felt free. He felt hopeful. It was all a matter of perspective.

***

Their fourth Christmas in the mind-prison had come and gone. For the first time, Sylar and Peter had spent it together. It was unfamiliar and strange, what with the looming shadows of Petrellis both dead and living hanging over the two men. It was nice, too, Sylar had to admit. He had yet to settle his internal battle of wanting such normal things — _nice_ things — and feeling unmanned by those desires. How did Peter manage to be a touchy-feely, overly-emotional empath and yet still indisputably masculine? He was sweet, in both looks and temperament, and almost pretty with those big eyes, delicate mouth and oh god, that hair. But his body? Nothing feminine about that, not the way it looked nor the way Peter used it.

After all this time together, Sylar still marveled at his powerful attraction to someone so different from anyone else he’d lusted over. It had to be the power. Sylar had never had patience for weak, wishy-washy people. Thinking back, what he had liked about Maya, other than her incredible body, had been her ability, the way her mind could wield such power. Otherwise, she was a bore.

Parkman’s wife, who had no abilities but was smart and confident, had been far more sexy than Maya and better in bed, too, he recalled with a smirk. How did that chubby loser ever land a woman like her? Must have been the badge...lots of women got off on the uniform kink. Claire —  that had gone nowhere, thankfully. What a mistake it had been to think that whiny brat could be his connection. Yet even Claire had that aura of toughness that Sylar found so magnetic. Where was the fun in tangling with someone who didn’t have the guts to challenge him?

As for men, Sylar hadn’t let his mind wander in that direction too often. There were a few he’d admired over the years but upbringing wasn’t easy to overcome. His mother would have flogged herself — and him —  if she’d known he had impure thoughts at all, let alone about men.

None of them, not the women he’d been with nor the men he’d occasionally fantasized about, were anything like Peter. What, if not the abilities, was this relentless attraction to someone who displayed vulnerabilities Sylar had detested in others —  anxiousness, insecurity, sensitivity, an easy target for other people to use and hurt? Remembering his many encounters with Peter, it had always been obvious when the other man was terrified. He had no poker face whatsoever.

The absence of Peter’s abilities here hadn’t dimmed Sylar’s desire. If anything, without the distractions of the outside world, the attraction had become more intense. Years with only his own hand for company explained some of his bodily reactions to Peter, though not all of them. Not the way his stomach flip-flopped when Peter amped up the wattage on his crooked smile. Not the nauseating guilt when he went too far with his insults and saw the hurt flash on Peter’s face. Not the funny thump from inside his chest when his first and last waking thoughts were of this aggravating, tantalizing man. It was a mystery he wasn’t going to solve today so he might as well get on with his day.

When Sylar arrived at the wall with breakfast, Peter was sitting cross-legged on the ground with his back to the infernally unblemished wall. His eyes were closed and his posture was erect but relaxed at the same time. In Sylar’s rare glimpses of Peter in repose, unguarded and unaware of being seen, he always looked younger than he was. With his angst and grief momentarily erased, he was like the old Peter that Sylar recalled from Nathan’s memories.

“Peter? What the hell are you doing?”

“I’m meditating.” Peter answered without opening his eyes, his chest rising and falling in a slow, gentle rhythm.

“Since when do you meditate? I never took you for the guru type.”

“Shh, Sylar. Give me a minute.”

Sylar honored the request, too fascinated by this new development to think of another snarky remark. God, Peter looked sexy right now, all peaceful and blissed out. Sylar sat down on the ground nearby, unloaded the bag he’d packed for breakfast and watched his companion.

After a few moments, Peter opened his eyes. “Thanks,” he said, and the smile he aimed at Sylar was beatific enough to make Sylar consider that there might be something to this meditation idea. “What did you bring?”

“Here you go, Maharishi.” Sylar handed Peter a thermos of coffee and a wrapped bacon-and-egg sandwich, a true New York City breakfast.

They ate in silence for a while, relishing the food and the hot coffee. The weather was mild for late January but still chilly enough that the coffee warmed Sylar’s grateful insides. “When did you start meditating?” he asked again. “Are you trying to achieve enlightenment?”

“Yeah,” Peter said with a laugh. “Pretty much. I picked up a book on meditation a couple weeks ago. You should try it. It’s relaxing.”

“You’ve been spending a lot of time at the library lately. Have you found any books on how to cure serial killers?” Sylar asked, with an arch of one formidable eyebrow.

Peter nearly choked on his coffee. God, he was so transparent. “You’re not a serial killer.”

“Good save, Peter, but technically I _am_ a serial killer.” Sylar finished his sandwich in two large bites and brought his thermos to his lips, still watching Peter’s expressions.

“Okay, whatever. That’s not what I’ve been reading about. Well, a few articles. You don’t fit the profile.”

“Oh really? Good to know. What else have you been reading, Dr. Petrelli?”

“Quit baiting me,” Peter said. “I’ll show you later. I’ve got work to do.” He stood up, wiped his hands and collected his trash for Sylar to toss out on his way back to the apartment. Peter turned his back, dismissing Sylar and reaching for the sledgehammer.

Sylar left, thinking he might visit the library. Maybe he’d even get a book on meditating. Why should Peter be the only one to find nirvana?

***

Peter arrived at Sylar’s apartment to find Sylar on the couch with his eyes closed and his watch in his hand. A book lay face down on the coffee table in front of him. Curious, Peter inched over to see the book cover. Holy shit! Sylar was meditating. He tiptoed out and went to the kitchen. Not wanting to disturb Sylar by banging around in search of a snack, he took a seat at the table and waited.

It didn’t take long. Peter heard the beep of Sylar’s watch followed by the man himself padding into the kitchen to ask if he was hungry.

“That’s really cool that you were meditating. And you were using your watch to time yourself. I never thought to do that.”

“Of course you didn’t.” Sylar smirked. The sarcasm was habitual, but lately he’d begun to soften it with small gestures. This time, he jostled Peter’s shoulder. “Meditating is boring. I don’t know how you stand it but maybe you don’t have as many complex thoughts to clear out of that little mind of yours.”

“Screw you,” Peter smirked in return, not trying to soften it at all.

“I wish you would, Peter. I’m ready whenever you are. But since the answer is always no, why don’t you make yourself scarce so I can get dinner ready? I’m starving.”

“Don’t cook. Let’s get take-out. I’m too hungry to wait.”

Twenty-minutes later, they had a spread of Chinese food on the table and Sylar was explaining the concept of quantum entanglement to Peter over fried rice and moo shoo pork.

“So once two particles become entangled, they remain that way. Even when they’re separated, across great distances, they continue to act and react to one another,” he said, meeting Peter’s eyes with a raised eyebrow. “Some theorists maintain that meditation taps into quantum entanglement but physicists aren’t quite ready to go down that road.”

“But that makes so much sense, Sylar. It’s like I always say. We’re all connected —  all of humanity, I mean.”

“You missed the point, Peter.”

Peter halted the path of his fork midway to his mouth. “Sorry, what point was that?”

“Never mind,” said Sylar, “It’s not important.”

Peter sensed he had offended Sylar in some way. In the past, he would have felt insulted to be told his understanding was lacking and would have pushed to know what Sylar had meant. He did feel a twinge of irritation at the slight but whatever he’d missed was Sylar’s problem, not his. He didn’t need to know what Sylar thought of him. It wasn’t worth provoking an argument so he remained silent while they cleaned up after dinner.

Later the two men played their guitars for awhile and afterwards, Sylar brought them both mugs of tea. Peter promptly spilled the entire contents of his mug down the front of his shirt.

“Ow!” he yelped, jumping to his feet. He whipped the shirt off, using the dry section to wipe the hot liquid from his chest. “Shit!” He said when that didn’t relieve the burning sensation, and dashed to the kitchen to douse himself with cold water. He could hear Sylar laughing from the other room. “I hope you’re alright, Peter, but excuse me for finding that hilarious,” the watchmaker called out to him.

“Nothing hurt but my pride,” Peter commented, strolling back to the living room with his damp shirt in his hand. He grabbed the now empty mug and returned it to the kitchen, leaving the balled up shirt on the table. So much for tea and sympathy. Sylar stared at him pointedly when he returned to the living room and plopped back down on the couch.

“What?” Peter asked, following the direction of Sylar’s gaze to his bare torso.

“Oh for Christ’s sake,” Sylar said and stalked out of the room, returning in seconds to toss something at Peter. A shirt. “Put it on,” he commanded, glaring.

“Jeez, alright. What’s your problem?” Peter pulled the shirt over his head, put his arms through the sleeves and smoothed it down over his chest and abdomen. “Happy?”

“You might have noticed that I’ve been trying to respect your boundaries, Peter, but you don’t make it easy when you parade around half-naked. I’m only human.”

Once again, Peter swallowed his retort because this time, he hadn’t missed the point. He should have noticed that Sylar’s behavior had improved since that evening when they’d discussed boundaries. He had blown his chance to give the guy positive reinforcement but Peter reasoned that he was bound to make mistakes and for once, his error wasn’t catastrophic. Good things were happening anyway. A small, rueful smile was his only answer to Sylar’s complaint.

***

The next time they were at the wall, Sylar remarked that Peter hadn’t shown him his latest collection of books prompting an assurance from Peter that he would do so later.

That night, Peter dumped the contents of his backpack on the kitchen table, spreading them out for Sylar to see. Sylar scanned the titles. _Mindsight: The New Science of Personal Transformation, The Art of Empathy, Empathy: Why It Matters and How to Get it_ and one memoir, _Night_ by Elie Wiesel.

“Is this a joke? Am I supposed to read all of those?” When he turned his gaze on Peter, his eyes were dark pools of fury. Uh oh. Too late, Peter realized he’d made a mistake. He wasn’t sure what it was but he was about to find out.

“Uh, well, not all of them, unless you want to. Pick whichever one looks most interesting.”

“Jesus, could you be any more self-righteous and condescending? You expect me to read a collection of self-help books about empathy so I can become more like you? And this,” he held up _Night_ , “I suppose is going to clarify the consequences of evil so I can finally weep for my victims. Fuck you, Peter.” He flung the book at Peter like a frisbee, glaring the whole time.

Peter caught the paperback, clumsily trapping it against his chest. “I got this one for me,” he said, feeling sheepish and utterly ridiculous.

“Really? Are you going to compare my impact to the fucking Holocaust? I didn’t kill 20 million people for no goddamn reason other than irrational hate.”

“No, Sylar. God, how could you think that? I wanted to know how he, the author I mean — ” he tapped the cover of _Night_. “Uh, forget it.” Peter sighed and gathered up the books, shoving them back inside his backpack. “I’m sorry.” He glanced back at Sylar who was still trying to impale Peter with his angry stare. “Look, I don’t know how to do this,” Peter confessed, spreading his hands in helpless confusion. “You asked for my help. I’m trying. You can put that on my tombstone, alright? Like Claude once said —  here lies Peter Petrelli. He tried.”

“How do you do that, Peter? How do you make me so angry I could throttle you and then, somehow, I end up feeling badly, like I’m the one who’s supposed to be apologizing?”

“Cut me a break, man. I’m not looking for an apology and I don’t need your pity. I was just trying to explain. We can call this whole thing off anytime you want.”

“No.” Sylar rubbed his forehead. “That’s not what I’m saying. Wait,” he said, looking at Peter again. “What do you mean ‘this whole thing?’ The books, or helping me or —   _everything_?”

“Whichever.” Peter said, turning towards the door as he spoke over his shoulder. “I’m going back to my place. We can talk tomorrow. I’m tired.”

Sylar nodded and stepped forward to meet Peter at the door. “You meant well. I recognize that.” He gave Peter’s shoulder an awkward pat as he opened the door for him.

“Do you think — “ Peter stopped in the open doorway. “Sylar, do you have any idea at all what would help?”

“That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?”

***

Peter’s stubborn resolve wouldn’t let him give up. It was the same persistence that had drawn both admiration and exasperation from friends and family all his life. Before long, he was back in the library with his own notebook, poring over books, magazines and scholarly journals, scribbling ideas and notes to himself. He had chosen a table as far from the towering stacks as possible. With nobody here but himself, there was something ominous about those tall shelves with their endless rows of books that would never be read unless he or Sylar read them. It was an even creepier thought to imagine being here that long.

He had read about sociopaths, what formed them and how Sisyphean a task it was to help them. He didn’t believe the label fit Sylar. It was too pat, too simplistic. Sociopathy couldn’t begin to encompass the complexities of abilities nor the ways in which Sylar contradicted the profile. Still, there were parallels — at least with the person Peter had first encountered in Odessa — and Peter had to start somewhere.

His studies took him on several tangents that he followed until they either provided useful ideas or dead-ended at roadblocks Peter couldn’t surpass. He had no MRI machine. He couldn’t design experiments that required other participants. He doubted very much he could hypnotize Sylar, though he amused himself imagining it and laughed until he was wiping away tears.

“Game theory, Peter?” Sylar said after Peter had put him through several nights of activities designed to reward cooperation over competition. “I have to admit, that was clever of you. I’d love to know how that mind of yours works.” It was said in jest but Peter couldn’t help but shiver at the implications of Sylar understanding his brain. The echoes of their past would probably never fade altogether.

“Come on, Peter,” he said another time, when Peter had subjected him to an exercise in which they each asked and answered questions that were supposed to create rapport. “Even you know these questions are lame.”

“You know what’s lame? You!” Peter tossed the papers in his hand at Sylar and pushed his chair back to extricate himself from his place at the table. Lacking the weight to serve as projectiles, the papers fluttered uselessly to the table surface. “Figures,” he muttered as he grabbed his coat with one hand and the doorknob with the other, slamming the apartment door behind him.

Peter rushed headlong down the dark stairway, stumbling In his haste to get away and catching himself on the banister. “That’s right, Pete, crack your stupid head open,” he chastised himself. He needed to do something to vent his anger and where else but the wall would he find the target he needed.

Peter slammed the sledgehammer into the implacable brick, cursing the wall, but he was clumsy in his anger and kept dropping the tool. “Goddammit!” He let it fall to the ground and leaned against the wall, pressing his forehead to the cold surface as his body shook from the exertion and frustration.

He wasn’t aware of Sylar’s presence until he felt the hand at the back of his neck and a quiet voice speaking to him.

“Don't do this to yourself.”

“What the fuck am I supposed to do, Sylar?” The words rushed out of his mouth in a furious torrent as he spun to face the former killer. “There are people in terrible danger and there’s nobody out there who knows what’s coming and I’m stuck here trying to help you because you asked me to and I need you to help me save them. And all you do is treat me like a joke and a failure.” Peter sucked in a breath at the end of his speech. The rising sob of frustration in his chest would give way to tears if he let it, but he’d be damned if he would show weakness to Sylar.

“Don’t you see, Peter? Even when you fail, you succeed.” Warm brown eyes lit by the street lamp met Peter’s and for once, they didn’t appear to be judging him.

“What are you talking about?”

Sylar stepped forward and gripped Peter’s elbow. “You’re trying. How many angles have you come at this from - the journal, the books, game theory, behavior modification…”

“You weren’t supposed to know about that last one.” Peter grumbled, his anger deflating at the unfamiliar gentle expression in Sylar’s eyes. It was a good look on him. _Who are you and what have you done with my arch enemy_?

“At the risk of offending you again, I have to tell you that subterfuge is not your forte.” Sylar grinned, with a trace of his famous smirk but lacking the old malice in his voice that had infused such taunts in the past.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing,” Peter admitted. “I thought I might be able to — I could see it. Now it’s as murky as mud.”

“You’re here,” Sylar said. “Believe it or not, it helps.”

***

“I’m not giving up, Sylar. I’m just out of ideas for the moment.” Peter entered the apartment and thrust a carton of vanilla chocolate chip ice cream into Sylar’s hands so that he could peel his coat and gloves off. Sylar was relieved that Peter had gotten over his tantrum and was back to himself, more or less.

“Let’s just hang out.” In the kitchen, Peter retrieved bowls and spooned generous helpings of ice cream into each dish. Sylar suspected the sugary treat was Peter’s way of applying a healing balm on both of them and felt a surge of fondness at Peter’s childlike peace-offering that he didn’t usually allow himself to acknowledge.

“We can play board games or something,” Peter said. “Or just talk. You can ask me anything you want that I haven’t already told you and I’ll answer, alright?”

They ate the ice cream in silence, each man lost in his own private thoughts. Peter’s offer was tempting. Not the board games. Sylar always had questions and there was one in particular. He’d asked it many times but he was always angry when he did and the responses were never satisfactory. Instead of bringing out the board games, Peter said that he would like to play the piano if Sylar didn’t mind listening. Mind? Why would he mind? It was always too quiet in this place. That was the reason Sylar had gotten the instrument.

“Are you taking requests?” Sylar inquired from his place on the couch.

“Sure,” Peter said, seating himself at the bench.

“Classical then.”

Sylar watched Peter stretching his fingers and rearranging the sheet music in front of him before launching into a favorite of his repertoire, Bach’s _Jesu Joy of Man’s Desiring_. Sylar liked that one too. The watchmaker leaned his head back against the cushions and zoned out to the music.

When Peter took breaks between pieces, Sylar asked questions. It was easier, less intimate, to talk like this, with Peter’s back turned and his attention somewhat distracted by the piano. There were things Sylar wanted to know about Bennet and Peter’s regard for him, whether Peter considered Bennet and Sylar to be in the same class. Nobody had tried to lock Bennet in a prison of his own mind, after all.

“Depends on what you mean by ‘class,’” Peter said. “Are we talking who did it better? Is that what this is about? Should I measure by sheer numbers, circumstances, who died, why they died, how they died or the people who were collateral damage? I’m sure there are a few classes I haven’t covered.”  Shaking his head in disgust and without waiting for a response, Peter played a ragtime tune, the better to bang the keys. Sylar wisely abandoned that line of inquiry. It wouldn’t do to derail the evening before getting to what he really wanted to know.

“Can I ask about your brother?” was his question once Peter had wound down the music again. He knew it was an unexpected request. It was Peter who brought up Nathan from time to time and while Sylar no longer objected the way he used to, it was not a topic he often invited.

Peter glanced over his shoulder at Sylar, his forehead creased with suspicion after the questions about Noah Bennet. “Nathan? Why would you ask about him? You have all of his memories.”

“I suppose it’s more a question about you, then…” Sylar spread his arms wide across the back of the sofa. It was his casual, confident look even if right now, he wasn’t sure he was going to get the answers he sought or a punch in the face. “I know he was your brother but not everyone thinks the world of their siblings. You have to admit the two of you had an extraordinarily close bond, even for brothers. What made him so … special?”

“Why do you want to know?”

“You’ve been trying to understand me. Maybe I want to understand you.” Sylar said it with a slight tilt of his head while also leaning forward to show both genuine interest and an air of casual indifference. He wasn’t faking it. He had wanted to know this from the very beginning but he didn’t want to seem like a creepy voyeur. He knew quite well what the dead senator had valued in his much younger brother. It was perhaps the one area of agreement he shared with the elder Petrelli, but his intimate knowledge of the man’s inadequacies and insecurities made it difficult to see him from Peter’s vantage point. “What the fuck was so great about him?” was how Sylar had stated the question on more than one occasion. Predictably, it had yielded nothing substantive, only an incredulous, “He was my brother!” He hoped to gain more insight this time.

“Um, okay. Fair enough.” Peter examined his hands that lay motionless on the piano keys. “What made Nathan special? That’s hard to answer. It’s not like there was a time in my life before him...he was just always there. I guess it was that Nathan took care of me,” he concluded, and his gaze darted back to Sylar, then flitted to the piano where his fingers glided over the keys without any pressure. Whatever the melody was in those movements, only Peter could hear it.

Peter swiveled his upper body to maintain a steady gaze on Sylar. “I know you see it differently but my brother supported me. He taught me a lot and he protected me, or he tried to. There were times he was busy or he didn’t want to be bothered with whatever issue I was having and I could always wear him down and he’d be there for me. When I was a kid, Nathan seemed to know what to do about any problem. Later, I realized he was as clueless as I or anyone else was, he was just better at bluffing….”  Peter absently plunked a few keys, making discordant sounds. “Is that what you wanted to know?”

“Yes,” Sylar replied, not trusting himself to elaborate on that answer because it was enough that Peter had spoken at such length about a topic that would never be easy between them. It was good information for Sylar to have, too, the way it summed up the brothers’ relationship. From Nathan’s memories, except for the betrayals that he knew Nathan regretted, it rang true. It showed just how forgiving Peter could be of the people he loved as long as he felt loved in return.

Peter spun on the bench bringing them face-to-face. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, copying Sylar’s posture, and for a few moments, he didn’t say anything. Finally, he looked up. “Can I ask _you_ something?”

Sylar wasn’t surprised that Peter would try to collect his payback. “You can always ask but you’re the one who promised to answer anything. I made no such assurance.”  
  
“Okay, fine. I just wanna know...What Nathan said to me that night at Pinehearst — that he wouldn’t have saved me? Was that … was it true?” Peter laced his hands together and watched Sylar with steady, somber eyes.   
  
Sylar stared back for a moment before it became too painful to witness the naked devastation on Peter’s face. With no brother, no siblings of his own, Sylar had barely ever had anyone except his mother and although he knew she had loved him, there was no support there. No trust. She was never someone he could have confided in. He had never had any idea what the loss of Nathan meant to Peter, no way of knowing what it felt like to lose someone as important as Peter’s brother had been to him. Before watching Peter mourn for four years, he didn’t understand grief, not even his own. The long-ago hazy memory of his childhood loss had been a shock to recover but he barely remembered his first mother. On some level, he knew the trauma of seeing her murdered had carved the first steps in his path of mayhem but he still had no trouble discounting other people’s pain. He’d cried over his other mother, too, and had moments of missing her, but losing her hadn’t torn a gaping hole in his life. In many ways, the guilt was worse than the grief. And then there was Elle and he had mourned for what might have been yet it didn’t help him understand anything.

For the first time, the face of his co-captive and the sound of Peter’s question in Sylar’s ears struck him with the full impact of what he’d done. It was a reality that had been sneaking up on Sylar, catching him by surprise - even after he’d apologized repeatedly for taking Peter’s brother from him. It refused to let him ignore, rationalize, dismiss or diminish the suffering he had caused. Sylar might have cut Peter’s throat, too, that day in the Stanton Hotel for how deeply he had gutted him. Peter was forever changed by that loss and Sylar had done it to him. He could never undo it or apologize enough.

So that question? It had to be the hardest request, for both of them, that Peter had ever made. Brave, too, because Peter had no way of knowing if he would get the answer he wanted. Sylar wasn’t in the habit of lying to Peter. At various times, he had omitted the truth when it was to his advantage. He’d certainly never lied to spare Peter’s feelings — white lies weren’t Sylar’s forte. At one time, he might have used this topic for his own gain and he gave a silent prayer of gratitude to the god he didn’t believe in that he hadn’t tried. It would have been stupid of him, futile. Nathan’s love was Peter’s bedrock. There would never be an advantage in making Peter see Nathan any other way than how he did.

“No,” Sylar said, “It wasn’t true. He was angry. He didn’t mean it and he hated himself for it later. He didn’t think he could ever make it up to you.” Every word was true yet it dawned on Sylar at that moment that it was the answer he would have given Peter either way.

“You’re telling me the truth, right?” Peter hadn’t taken his eyes off Sylar the whole time that he was speaking and his hands remained tightly clasped. In two long strides across the worn wood floor, Sylar was standing in front of him. He crouched down to bring their faces close while his hands rested flat on Peter’s knees.

“Listen to me. If you never believe another word I say, believe this. He didn’t mean it. He didn’t.” Sylar didn’t move until he could see that Peter was accepting his words.

“Okay,” Peter said. His lips were pressed together in a tight line and he nodded his head several times. “Alright. Thank you for telling me.” Sylar gave his friend’s shoulder a quick squeeze and walked away. He didn’t want to see Peter cry.

Later, when Peter had composed himself, he cornered Sylar in the kitchen. “Your turn.”

“Ah, no I don’t recall that being part of the deal.” Sylar attempted to shoulder his way past Peter, but Peter wasn’t deterred and he stepped in front of Sylar to block his way.

“One question. Other than your real mother when you were a little boy, was there someone you loved that you lost and if so, who was it?”

“I appreciate your gesture tonight, but ice cream isn’t going to cut it, Peter. If you wanted me to reveal my secrets, you should have brought whiskey.”

***

“I have an idea, Sylar,” Peter said one evening. “There are meteor showers tonight. I’ve always wanted to see that but it’s never been possible with all the city lights. We can go up on the roof.”

“How romantic of you, Peter. I accept,” Sylar said, wondering what Peter was up to now.

“Great. I put two folding chairs up there earlier. We’ll need some blankets. But not til later. It starts around midnight.”

“Hmmm. The bewitching hour, huh?”

Several hours later, the two men were wrapped in blankets against the chill air of an early spring night. Around them the city lay in its own blanket of darkness. A small lamp, plugged into the outdoor outlet with an extension cord, cast enough light for them to see one another without blotting out the inky blackness of the sky and the billion stars scattered across the night.

Sylar arched an eyebrow when Peter brought out a bottle of scotch and two tumblers. “Hope you don’t mind it without ice.” Peter grinned.

“I should know better than to underestimate you,” Sylar said. “You’re getting better at planning.”

They sipped their scotch quietly and waited for the show to begin. Sylar didn’t believe they would see anything worth freezing up here on the roof but he was humoring Peter. He owed him that much for all of Peter’s determined faith in trying to find something worthwhile in him. He was wrong about the meteors and even Sylar wasn’t jaded enough not to appreciate this miracle of nature. He could almost believe it wasn’t so bad here after all, alone with Peter in a forsaken city. Peter enjoyed the spectacle like the child in Nathan’s memories. ”Did you see that?” he asked, pummeling Sylar’s shoulder after a particularly large cluster of meteors streaked across the sky.

“I saw it. I’m going to be black and blue if this goes on for much longer,” he said. “I’m just wondering when the inquisition begins, Torquemada.”

“No inquisition,” Peter said, rolling his eyes at the reference to the grand inquisitor. “Talk about whatever you want. Tell me about your timepieces. Do you have a favorite of all the ones you’ve worked on?”

The question caught Sylar off guard but it shouldn’t have. It was what made Peter such a people person. Nobody else ever discussed his interest in timepieces with him unless they were an aficionado themselves. Granted, Sylar’s experiences with people were limited but he hadn’t met very many who cared about what other people liked, or thought, or did with their time, just for the sake of knowing them better.

He thought about his many timepieces, current and past. “It’s hard to choose. I think my favorite is often whatever I’m working on at any given time. Right now that includes a Frank Muller - it’s a brand known for its complications. There’s another one that I found last summer, right around the time of your adventure.” He glanced at Peter to see how he’d react to the mention of the episode when Peter had run away and Sylar had gone after him, but Peter’s expression, though attentive, remained neutral. “Anyway, it’s vintage and it wasn’t difficult to fix...it was just overwound. It’s beautiful, very finely crafted.”

“That’s interesting,” Peter said, “And it makes sense. You like things that are complicated.”

“I enjoy a challenge. I appreciate intricate mechanisms and the intellect that goes into making them, understanding them and fixing them. Craftsmanship is important, too, as are aesthetics. Some things are easier to fix than others.”

“You can say that again.” Peter reached for the bottle of scotch and poured them both another glass. Sylar was beginning to feel mellow, relaxed and almost boneless. He didn’t have much experience with alcohol, having never engaged in the debauchery common among many teenagers. Once he had acquired Claire’s power he couldn’t have gotten drunk if he’d wanted to. He decided that he liked the feeling, the way the scotch warmed him all over, though he knew it wasn’t really keeping him warm, just lowering his core temperature. He assumed Peter, as a nurse and paramedic, knew that too.

“Are you ever going to tell me anything that matters, Sylar?”

“I just did. Restoring timepieces was my life for a long time. That and books — and memories — was all I had for three years. Then you showed up.”

“So you think you have me now, huh?” Peter joked, his eyes crinkling in the corners.

“I’d like to have you,” Sylar answered, looking at Peter without a trace of humor.

“Do you think it’s because of Nathan?” Peter returned Sylar’s gaze with frank curiosity.

“What?! No!” Sylar adjusted his position in the folding chair. He’d been slumped down, relaxed, but now he was at full attention. _“_ What are you saying? Believe me, there are no memories like that in my head and I resent the implication that having his memories strips me of my own agency.”

“That’s not what I meant. I just thought, y’know, Nathan and I were close and …” Peter shrugged, leaving the sentence hanging as he unwrapped himself from his blanket and stepped to the edge of the roof.

Sylar watched Peter’s dark silhouette for a while, pondering whether there might be any truth — his own heated protestations notwithstanding — to what Peter had asked. He supposed he would never know for sure what things would be like if he hadn’t acquired the dead senator’s memories, whether Nathan’s affection for Peter had somehow imprinted on Sylar’s own feelings. His attraction to Peter had begun long before that, though, even if, at the time, he would not have termed it an attraction. There had been too much going on, too many motivations, goals and deep-seated desires to sort out. There was the sense of purpose, wanting to be special, anger from being overlooked all his life, the shame and trauma of abuse, his envy of what came so easily to others, and of course the hunger driving everything. It was impossible then to separate one kind of lust from another; it was only obvious now, in retrospect.

Sylar put his blanket aside and followed Peter to the rooftop’s edge. A waist-high wall prevented them from accidentally toppling off. Peter sat on the wide ledge, facing the city, with his legs drawn up and his arms loosely hugging his knees. He glanced over with a small smile of acknowledgement when Sylar sat beside him, facing the rooftop instead of the city.

“What’s next?” he asked, bumping Peter’s shoulder. “I don’t think your plan of getting me drunk was successful. So...tarot cards?”

“Yeah that’s it. Too bad you got stuck with me instead of that fortune-teller. What was her name?”

“Lydia. I don’t want to talk about her.” Sylar grasped Peter’s hand and pretended to study it. He wouldn’t mind having Lydia’s power to read emotions right now. “You have a very long lifeline.”

“Bullshit.” Peter laughed. To Sylar’s ears it sounded nervous. “It’s too dark to read my palm.”

“I don’t need to read your palm to tell your future. These hands will do great things. You’ll save many lives. That’s what you do, isn’t it?” He released Peter’s hand, aware of how weird he was being.

Most of Peter’s face was in shadow but Sylar could feel his gaze. He knew Peter couldn’t see him either and Sylar couldn’t help wondering what his expression was right now.

The awkwardness faded into the quiet stillness as they watched the sky. The meteor shower had peaked earlier, but a few straggling stars fell over the city.

Sylar broke the silence. “You’re killing me, Peter. You know that, don’t you? I’m trying to respect your boundaries. It’s getting more difficult to be around you and — not touch.”

“If it’s any consolation,” Peter replied in a quiet voice, “it’s killing me too.”

“Then why?” Sylar asked. “Why deny yourself? Why torture us both? Nathan wouldn’t care.”

“Don’t you dare fucking tell me what my brother would think.” Peter snapped. “That’s a cheap-shot.”

“It’s true. Your brother was pragmatic. He would tell you that guilt is a useless emotion. It won’t bring him back, it won’t solve anything and all it does is make you miserable. Trust me on that.”

“It’s not guilt. I’m just not ready to let go…”

“You feel connected to him by hating me?”

“Something like that.”

“Fine. You're not ready. That doesn’t mean no. It means not yet, right? I’ll wait.” Sylar stood up. The buzz he’d felt earlier was gone. “Good night, Peter. I’ll take the chairs and the blankets. You get the lamp and the other stuff, whenever you decide to leave.”

Peter nodded and turned his face back to the sky.

***

Hours later, Sylar was woken by a knock at the door. It could only ever be one person and while it wasn’t a regular occurrence, Peter had visited him in the middle of the night before. Usually it was after a tortured, sleepless night of regretting things said or unsaid during an argument. Sometimes it was nightmares. Both of them had been plagued for years by bad dreams and night terrors stemming from their previous life, though it had been awhile since either man had suffered them regularly. Not knowing what to expect, Sylar made his way to the door and opened it.

Framed by the doorway, the outlines of Peter’s dark hair and clothing were swallowed by the blackness of the unlit hall behind him. He looked rough, as if he’d slept in his clothes. His hair was uncombed, his shirt wrinkled and his face drawn.

“What’s wrong?” Sylar asked. “Bad dreams again?”

“Can’t sleep,” Peter said.

“Are you sick?”

“No...just ready.”

The gears turned slowly in Sylar’s still sleepy brain. He stood there stupidly for a moment and then it clicked. “Get in here!” he said, grasping Peter’s elbow to pull him through the doorway.

The door was barely closed when Sylar took Peter’s face in his hands and kissed him, none too gently. It was artless and sloppy and he didn’t care. Peter didn’t seem to mind, not when Sylar’s hands were already roaming through his hair.

“You taste like scotch. Are you drunk?”

“I had a shot before I left my apartment. Liquid courage.” Peter smiled shyly, curving his mouth slightly sideways. His hands were everywhere and it was all Sylar could do to trap them with his own, as much as he hated to put a halt to something he’d wanted for so long.

“I don’t want you if you’re not in your right mind. Don’t fucking tease me.” He held Peter close, still gripping his hands, grazing his lips against the man’s temple. He didn’t know how he was going to rewind this moment but he wasn’t going to sleep with a drunk guy. Not unless they were both drunk. His ego required a partner who was one hundred percent willing and present, no matter what his body demanded.

“I’m fine, I swear. It’s just a little buzz. I’m not impaired.” Peter’s voice was deep, with a breathy quality that whispered over his words. Sylar had always found it mesmerizing even when it was saying boring things about principles and morals. He couldn’t wait to hear how it sounded in bed. Peter’s eyes found his and held his gaze, steady and stubborn.

Sylar let go of Peter’s hands and pulled him closer. His arousal was indescribable and he feared he might embarrass himself before much of anything happened. “You’re not going to hate yourself for this tomorrow?” His face was already buried by his partner’s hair as his mouth located his favorite spot on Peter’s neck.

“I can’t promise that but it won’t be because I made an impulsive decision. I want you.”

“Oh god, Peter, you have no idea what that does to me.”

“I think I do know.” Peter chuckled, moving even closer, if that were possible. Sylar didn’t think there was any air, not even a molecule, between their bodies. They brought their mouths together again, lips, teeth and tongues, while fumbling with each other’s clothing. Sylar pulled Peter’s tucked-in t-shirt up and ran his hands underneath, touching smooth skin all over.

“Mmm.” Peter hummed as his fingers unbuttoned Sylar’s shirt. Sylar batted his hands away. “Fuck that, it takes too long,” he said and yanked his shirt over his head, pulling his arms from the sleeves to toss the shirt aside.

“Sexy,” Peter whispered and dragged Sylar forward again, to kiss and bite and touch some more.

Sylar grabbed a handful of Peter’s hair to hold him still while his other hand traced a teasing pattern across Peter’s chest and down over his abdomen. He watched Peter close his eyes and inhale a long breath when Sylar’s fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his jeans. That reaction of Peter’s was too much. Sylar bit him hard on the shoulder. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could hold out without devouring the smaller man.

Peter’s hands were busy, too, squeezing, sliding, and scratching down Sylar’s back while Sylar toyed with him, dipping his fingers in and out of Peter’s pants.

“Clothes off,” Peter said with a strangled groan. Sylar agreed. “You first,” he said with his lips on Peter’s collarbone. “I want to look at you.” He undid Peter’s button and zipper with one hand while the other continued the teasing ministrations that had Peter breathing hard. He slid the jeans and underwear down over Peter’s hips, admiring the man’s body while Peter freed his legs from the clothing and pulled his shirt over his head.

Sylar took a half-step back to pull off his own jeans, while his gaze swept over Peter, from his tousled bedroom hair to his unextraordinary feet. God, he was perfect. Clear, smooth skin, well-proportioned limbs and torso and hard in all the right places. The naked desire on that choir-boy face was everything.

They joined their bodies again, smashed together at the hip and groin. Despite their height difference, their bodies seemed made to fit.

“Bed, Peter. Now,” Sylar said and hooked his left hand under Peter’s thigh. Peter got the message and let Sylar hoist him, bending to kiss and nip at the taller man’s mouth while they lurched to the bed.

“I want you right now,” Sylar growled as he deposited Peter on the bed. Peter smiled his crooked grin. “Got me,” he said, reaching for the taller man. Sylar pushed Peter back and climbed over him, sliding his hands up Peter's body to touch his hairless chest, following with lips, tongue and teeth. Despite Sylar’s lack of sexual experience with men, they seemed to agree without too much discussion who would do what.

“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” he asked Peter. “Mmm hmm.” Peter replied, accepting the tube of lubricant Sylar pulled from a bedside drawer and pressed into his hand. Sylar was always prepared. “Show me. I want everything, Peter. I want to turn you inside out, touch you, taste you, bite you, and I want your hands and mouth and body all over me. Don't even think about sleeping because this is going to take all night.”

Peter laughed and pulled Sylar down for a kiss, then instructed his lover on how to please him. Sylar was grateful for how simple Peter made it and their bodies joined, exploring every inch, rocking together and sliding over one another, hot, sweaty and demanding. They both peaked several times over the course of a night that was now morning, gasping and spent until neither of them could move.

The light in the sky outside the window signaled the arrival of dawn. The two men lay inches apart in the too-small bed, facing one another with their legs tangled, exhausted in the best possible way. Peter's hand found Sylar's and laced their fingers. He was always one for the corny gestures but Sylar wasn’t complaining.

“Jesus, Sylar, why did we wait so long?” Peter mumbled, his eyelids beginning to lower as sleep crept up on him.

“I should smack you for that, you brat.” Sylar settled for whacking him with a pillow.

 ***

 

Sylar and Peter slept until noon. Sylar woke first and Peter opened his eyes to find himself being studied like a bug under a microscope. He smiled at the ex-killer who had turned out to be a fantastic lover. Thinking about it was making Peter feel ready for more.

“Do you hate yourself?” the taller man asked.

 “No and I’m not going to. You were right about guilt. I’m done with misery and death. It’s time to go on living.”

“I killed my mother.”

That statement dropped a bucket of cold water on Peter’s nascent arousal. It didn’t surprise him except for the timing.

“Go on. I’m listening.” He propped himself on his elbow and gave Sylar his full attention. Sylar searched his face, maybe looking for feedback on how Peter was receiving this declaration. After several moments the scrutiny became uncomfortable but Peter sensed that he shouldn’t look away. He blinked a few times and waited.

“It was an accident.”

Sylar told the story matter-of-factly, without any emotional embellishment other than to describe his state of mind at the time. His use of detail was vivid, though, and it helped Peter picture everything Sylar was relaying. He saw the transformation of Sylar from swaggering bad guy to shy, nerdy watchmaker son off to visit his mother, even though Peter had never met that second man. There had been glimpses of him from time to time, especially recently, but Peter didn’t think Sylar was him anymore. Peter related to Sylar’s seeking reassurance from a mother who couldn’t hear him or accept him for who he was. He understood the fear that had prompted her actions, too. He saw the scissors, the struggle — how easily it could go wrong in just the ways that it had.

 Peter wasn’t sure what to say when Sylar had finished. He stroked Sylar’s hand instead of letting words get in the way, hoping to impart what he was feeling. Other than that, he waited once more.

“Do you regret sleeping with a monster who killed his own mother?”

“Is that why you told me?” Peter asked. “I have to admit the timing is strange. I get the feeling there’s a part of you that wants to confirm your worst opinion of yourself and getting me to kick you out of bed would do that.”

“I told you because I owed you.”

“Because we had sex? That’s not a quid pro quo for anything. You don’t owe me your secrets in return for me being in your bed.” This was exactly the kind of complication Peter had worried about. Too late now, he couldn’t stuff the genie back in the bottle.

“Alright.” Sylar nodded his head in assent.

“Anyway I’ve suspected it for a long time. I knew who you were when I came here looking for you however long ago that was and I knew who I was getting in bed with last night. That’s not all of who you are.”

Sylar rested his head on the pillow and turned his face to the ceiling. His affect had been flat all morning.

“Is there more?” Peter asked. “Did you kill your father?”

“No I left that bastard alive to suffer a slow and painful death by cancer.” 

Peter winced at the cruelty but he supposed Sylar’s father had it coming to him, just like Peter’s own father deserved what he’d gotten.

“So that’s everyone you’ve lost that you cared about.”

“Elle. I killed Elle.”

“Elle with the lightning bolts?” Peter remembered her with little fondness but he kept his opinion to himself. “How did it happen?” 

“None other. We had a thing. It didn't work out.”

For the second time that morning, Peter was startled. He scrambled to a sitting position, inching almost imperceptibly away from his bed-mate. Sylar noticed and clarified his statement. “She betrayed me.” If that was supposed to be reassuring, it had failed and Peter knew his face must be giving everything away because Sylar moved to soothe him.

“Peter, you would never betray me. You’re safe.” He stroked Peter’s hair and Peter tried not to recoil.

“Betrayal is in the eye of the beholder, Sylar.” Peter swung his legs over the side of the bed. Shooting a glance at Sylar over his shoulder, he said, “I’m going to shower.”

He walked over to where he’d dropped his clothes the previous night and began dressing.

“What are you doing? I thought you were going to shower?” Peter turned his head and saw Sylar sitting on the end of the bed watching him put his pants on. Sylar’s hair was sticking out in several directions and his eyebrows were drawn upwards in confusion. He was still naked and he didn’t look like a killer right now. He looked like the guy Peter had spent the night kissing, fondling and fucking.

“I am. At my place.” Peter bent over to grab his shirt off the floor and pulled it over his head. He put on his socks, shoved his feet into his shoes and crouched to tie the laces.

“You’re judging me,” Sylar said. “You wanted my secrets and now you’re holding it against me.”

“No,” Peter shook his head. “I’m not judging you. But I am afraid of you. I can’t help that.”

“Still, Peter? After all this time? Don’t you see I’ve changed?”

He did see it and he heard it in the plaintive tone that accompanied Sylar’s declaration but he wasn’t sure how much he could trust it. What would this guy be like with his powers, and the hunger, restored? It was sobering. “I see that you’re trying... but yeah. Still.” He shut the door quietly behind himself.

 ***

 Matt Parkman laid the last brick on top of the mortar, making sure to fit it up against the brick beside it before smoothing around it with his trowel. He used a damp rag to wipe away the excess mortar. It was enough for now. The bastard was contained. He’d finish the rest later. Right now he needed to clean his tools, straighten up around the wall he was building and figure out what to do about Peter Petrelli.

Parkman had no beef with Peter. He had always liked him. Peter was a good guy — a little holier-than-thou, but a straight-shooter. He’d always seemed kind of impulsive, though and holy shit, what a fucking idiot! Parkman shook his head at how Peter had barged in demanding to see Sylar and then leapt with no questions asked right into the trap Parkman had set for the super powered killer.

Parkman had warned Peter not to enter Sylar’s mind. When that failed, he tried to free Peter. He called out to him with his mind but either Peter couldn’t hear him or, more likely, wasn’t listening. As Parkman cleaned up his tools, he thought through his predicament. The mental trap would hold. Once Sylar was fully bricked up, he’d never give anyone trouble again. Nobody would think to look for him here except Angela Petrelli and she wouldn’t care. But Peter? _That_ she would care about.

It wasn’t his fault! He hadn’t meant for Peter to be involved. But now that ship had sailed and Parkman couldn’t leave him here. Mrs. Petrelli must have known Peter was coming here. How else had Peter known to find Sylar in Parkman’s home of all places? He hoped like hell Mrs. Petrelli hadn’t dreamed anything beyond Sylar’s arrival here. If she knew that Peter was trapped in Sylar’s mind, Parkman didn’t want to think about what she’d have done to him.

By the time his tools were scrubbed free of mortar and the mess in the basement cleaned up, he had decided he would move Peter. He’d carry him upstairs and then call an ambulance. Or maybe he’d call Bennet. Bennet would know what to do, if Matt could trust him. He’d have to mull that over. There was still the problem of explaining what had happened to Peter. “Uh, I found him like this on my front step.” Yeah that wasn’t going to cut it.

He’d cross that bridge when he came to it. Right now, he needed to get Peter upstairs. He crouched beside the much smaller man who was lying at the base of the wall where he’d collapsed seconds after going into Sylar’s mind. Matt pulled him to standing and dragged him a few feet to give himself room to hoist Peter over his shoulder, but he couldn’t lift him. “ _Whew_ ,” Parkman thought, wiping the sweat from his face. “ _I must have tired myself out. He’s heavier than he looks.”_  After all, he’d had little difficulty carrying Sylar earlier and Peter was smaller.

He tried again, this time bending over so that he could get his back underneath Peter’s torso and lift him that way. His knees buckled, nixing that strategy. Meanwhile, Matt had worked up quite a sweat given such minimal physical activity. When he straightened up, he realized he wasn’t the only one who was sweating. Peter’s face was slick with perspiration. He didn’t look so good, either — his cheeks were a sickly pink and his eyeballs were rolling beneath his eyelids like the steel balls in a pachinko machine. “Why’s he so hot?” Parkman wondered. “Fuck it,” he decided. Whatever was wrong, he didn’t want to make it any worse. He was a little creeped out, to be honest. What if Peter were contagious? In any case, the fever solved one problem for him — it could explain why Peter was out cold. It also decided him on finishing the wall today, to make sure that Sylar was hidden from view when he called an ambulance, or Bennet, to his basement. He still hadn’t made up his mind.

Parkman lowered Peter back to the floor and sat him against the wall. Should he leave him like that? He looked around for something to tuck behind his head, found an old tarp and rolled it up. When he knelt down to place the tarp, Matt noticed that Peter’s color was back to normal. Gingerly, he touched Peter’s neck with one finger. He was still warm but no longer burning up as he had been moments ago. He didn’t know what to make of it; it was in some ways more creepy than if Peter had gotten sicker. By this time, Parkman was hungry and decided to scrounge up something to eat while he thought over whether to call Bennet. He washed his hands with soap and hot water, just in case Peter really did have some kind of disease. It would be just his luck to catch it.

 ***

 “That’s where you’re wrong,” Sylar said to the other man. “There’s something else I haven’t told you. He’s here.” He should have divulged this sooner and he felt a twinge of guilt, after everything he’d put this man through, for keeping this secret for so long. Hell, he had his reasons. But now he needed the man to understand. To help him, if he would.

“He’s here. My brother is here.” There was no question mark at the end of those sentences. And even though the voice was in his head and the words, therefore, weren’t spoken aloud, Sylar could hear the flat tenor of Nathan Petrelli’s voice in a tone that meant he was pissed off. Really pissed off. Rightly so. Sylar waited.

“How long?” Nathan asked.

Sylar knew exactly how many months, days, and weeks it had been, down to the second, but he didn’t think Nathan would appreciate the precision. “Almost five years.”

“What?! How long have _we_ been here?”

“We were here three years before Peter arrived.”

“My God…” Nathan trailed off, and Sylar allowed him time to process the information. “You really are a sonofabitch, Sylar. Why the fuck didn’t you tell me? And why are you telling me now?”

“It’s — complicated.” Sylar swallowed in a vain attempt to lubricate his throat. “I didn’t want you interfering. It’s bad enough you’re stuck in my head like this, with all of your memories, when I killed you. It’s worse that I can’t always control when your memories slip out and I say things to Peter that sound like you. You wouldn’t believe how angry that makes him.”

“Yeah I’ll bet,” Nathan said. “So this is the part where you get my brother to forgive you? Good luck with that. Don’t expect any help from me. You can shove that journal up your ass.”

Sylar could feel Nathan retreating. For so long, the dead Senator had been a constant presence that Sylar battled but over time, he’d been less and less present. For the most part that had been a good thing for both of them, but not now. In a desperate voice, he asked him to wait. “Please. Hear me out."

“Alright. I’m listening but you’d better make this good, you prick.”

Relieved, Sylar mentally crowed that the “please” and the pleading tone had halted Nathan’s departure. Sylar didn’t beg for anything. Nathan knew that. They understood each other very well after all this time. The senator had to be itching to know more, though, and his attempted disappearing act had to be a temporary bluff. He’d never stay away knowing Peter was here. Still, Sylar didn’t have the patience to play the game Nathan’s way.

“I know how it sounds asking you to help me,” Sylar said, pacing the living room and massaging his left temple just for something to do. “It’s self-serving. I get it. But you have to believe me that it’s not just for me. Peter needs this, too. He might need it more than I do. He’s tormented. Broken.”

There was a lot more to it than that and Sylar knew that he was going to have to let Nathan in on all of it but not yet. He needed to unfurl this tale with great delicacy to get Nathan’s buy-in. He sat on the couch and fiddled with the pages of the book he’d left lying on the coffee table.

“No shit he’s broken,” Nathan said. “What did you expect after you killed me? People don’t react well to their relatives being murdered. And my brother had already been through hell. How did he get here anyway, in your mind? Jesus Christ, this is crazy. Two Petrellis in the mind of a madman. Stan Lee couldn’t write a comic this fucked-up.”

“Yes, you're right. Peter has been through hell and a lot of that has been my doing. I’m owning my part in it and trying to make amends.”  He let that sink in before he added, quietly, oh so carefully, “If memory serves, Senator, you’ve played your own part in what’s been done to your brother.”

Nathan’s anger was like an explosion in Sylar’s brain. “Fuck you, Sylar. My brother and I resolved things. He forgave me.”

Leave it to Nathan Petrelli to think all he had to do was apologize and everything would be fine. Such privilege! “Peter may have forgiven you but don’t think for a minute he hasn’t been scarred by your betrayals and your thoughtless form of care-taking. Would you like to know what he asked me a few days ago?”

“What?”

“Peter wanted to know if what you said to him at Pinehurst was true. He wasn’t sure whether you would really have left him to burn there. He’s been carrying that burden around all this time.” Sylar said. “Your eleventh-hour ‘I love you, Pete’ didn’t fix shit.” Sylar allowed himself a sneer even though Nathan couldn’t see it.

If the long pause before a reply was any indication, Sylar’s words had the desired effect. “What did you tell him?” Nathan asked. It was obvious he was shaken.

 _My turn at bat_ , Sylar thought, _and here comes the home run_. “I defended you, Petrelli. I told him you didn’t mean it, that you regretted it and that you hated yourself for saying it.”

“I wished I could have taken it back. I guess I owe you a debt of gratitude for easing my brother’s mind about that.” The words were a whisper inside of Sylar’s head.

“Does that mean you’ll help me?” Sylar asked, prying a loose paint chip from the molding surrounding his living room window and thinking he should take up nail-biting. The missing paint chip was going to irk him.

“It means I’ll listen to the rest of what you have to say.”

Sylar outlined Peter’s arrival in the mind-prison, his claim to have seen the future and his belief that Sylar would save people. Sylar was certain that Nathan’s journals would be an important catalyst to their escape.

Nathan argued that he didn’t see how this document was going to bring about Peter’s forgiveness. There was nothing in it to exonerate Sylar. If anything, Nathan insisted, it was likely to rip open all the wounds that had scabbed over, reminding Peter of the misery both of these men had caused him. Why would Sylar want to do that?

“You don’t get it, Petrelli. You may think you know your brother but I know how things work. I know how _he_ works.” Sylar said. “How do you think Peter feels about me, of all people, being in possession of _your_ memories?

“To be honest, Sylar, I’m not sure how he didn’t wring your neck and snuff the life out of you because that’s what I would have done.” Nathan chuckled, clearly relishing the thought. Sylar was unfazed. He was used to people wishing death on him. Many had tried. “I know what you’re gonna say,” Nathan added. ‘That’s not Peter.’ Right?”

“Actually, no. Trust me it was touch and go with Peter for a long time.” Now it was Sylar’s turn to laugh, although the memory was painful, not funny at all and the laughter was merely a pressure valve. The last time he’d spoken to Peter, Peter had told Sylar he was afraid of him. All the effort he’d made to earn Peter’s trust was lost in a moment of idiotic confession. That was why he hadn’t wanted to tell his story in the first place. He’d known Peter would see him for the irredeemable monster that he was. Peter had left a note under his door, apologizing for leaving. “I need space,” he had written. “I want to trust you. I hope you can appreciate how much I already have.” That sounded like past tense to Sylar. At least Peter had left him a note this time.

“If it hadn’t been for Peter's mission, at least one of us would probably be dead by now.” Sylar concluded.

“Lucky you, then,” the politician quipped.

“Yes. Lucky me. You have no idea.”  Sylar smirked for his own amusement at the irony of how things had turned out. Despite everything, he had begun to think his luck was changing, until he’d scared Peter away. “Fate is a bitch goddess with a vicious sense of humor.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Nathan said, and Sylar understood that he was impatient with the conversation. “So if my brother hates you having my memories, isn’t giving him my journals like rubbing his face in it?”

“If I could take these memories out of my head, I would,” Sylar said. “This is the next best thing.” How could he make Peter’s brother understand? Peter had given his trust over and over to people who hadn’t deserved it. They’d used him and betrayed him, then asked him to forgive and trust again. Nathan and Sylar were not the only antagonists but Sylar was certain they along with Mama and Papa Petrelli had star-billing in Peter’s nightmares.  And now Sylar was asking Peter to trust again. He had nothing to give but his word and how valuable could that be given his track record?

“Your journal does not exonerate you, Petrelli, but it will put to rest Peter’s doubts when he understands the pressures that motivated you.”

“That’s good, Sylar.” Nathan said. “You ever try sales? You have a gift. You still haven’t explained how it helps you but honestly, I don’t give a shit if Peter forgives you. So alright, I’m in.  I wouldn’t get my hopes up if I were you but let's get it done. I want to see my brother.”

“Of course.” Sylar said. They went to work immediately. Sylar wanted Peter to see Nathan’s journey as recorded in his journal since the day he’d announced his run for Congress. And since Sylar’s own history became intertwined with Nathan’s from the moment he had killed the politician and acquired his memories, the journal should continue to the present day.

It didn’t matter what Nathan believed about how Peter would react. Sylar understood Peter better than Nathan ever had. He knew what Peter needed: to be special. To make a difference. And to know he was loved. Saving people fulfilled Peter’s need to make a difference. Sylar wished for Peter’s sake that he didn’t need other people to convince him of his value, that he would know he was special and that people’s mistreatment and failure to acknowledge him was about their limitations and not his worth. But he could hardly judge Peter. Hadn’t Sylar himself been driven by the same need to be special, to be seen for what he had to offer?

When the journal was done, Sylar escorted Nathan (in a manner of speaking) to the wall so that Nathan could see the barrier for himself. It was also where they were likely to find Peter and Sylar was curious how Nathan would react to seeing his brother once again. As expected, Peter was there, seated with his back to the wall and his eyes closed. The snarky remark about Peter’s meditation habit that was about to fall from Sylar’s lips stalled when Sylar realized that Peter didn’t meditate with his head lolling back like that. With his eyes swiveling left and right, he doubled the length and pace of his steps to reach Peter. Had the company found them here, too?

Sylar knelt beside Peter and placed two fingers on his neck. He didn’t know much about pulse rate, but he could feel what was abnormally fast, slow or non-existent and from what he could tell, Peter’s pulse was normal. That was the good news. The bad news was that he was burning with fever, something that had never happened here. He was also unconscious.

Sylar looked him over for signs of injury, feeling over Peter’s scalp for bumps or lacerations and pulling up his shirt to inspect for any bruises that might explain why he was unconscious. There was nothing. Could it have been something Peter had eaten that had made him ill? There was no way to know.

Sylar slid an arm around his unconscious friend’s back and the other under Peter's knees and lifted him.

“What are you going to do?” Nathan asked.

“Unfortunately Peter’s the nurse,” Sylar replied, “and he’s not talking. I guess I’ll try to cool him down. He’s too damn hot.” Looking down at Peter’s face, Sylar noticed his eyes rolling wildly beneath his closed eyelids. Could Peter be having a seizure? The whole situation was odd but given the strange things Sylar had lived through all those years ago, anything was possible.

Peter began muttering and Sylar had to tilt his head lower to make out what he was saying. “Matt, no! You can’t move me. The wall...the wall...”

“He’s delirious,” Nathan said. “This is how he was that time I picked him up in Texas. He was mumbling something just before he passed out.”

“Yes, I know. But that was from absorbing too many powers. There are no abilities here. Why would he think Parkman was here?”

Nathan had no answers. Sylar could feel him hovering anxiously and he allowed a twinge of sympathy for the dead senator who had been eager to see his brother only to find him like this.

Back at the apartment, Sylar laid Peter on his bed and stripped him down to his boxer briefs. He ran cool water on a washcloth and wiped Peter down, wet the cloth again, wrung it out and laid it across Peter’s forehead. Then he looked through the first aid kit Peter had assembled ages ago. Most of it was useless — bandages, gauze, antibiotic ointment, wraps, ah, Tylenol and ibuprofen. But how was he going to get any fever reducers into Peter? For that matter, Peter needed fluids too. Sylar would have to improvise as best he could. If it got bad enough he could get IVs but he wouldn’t know what he was looking for or how to use any of it. He put that idea on hold and focused on keeping Peter cool. There was a thermometer here too so he took Peter’s temperature.

“Am I reading that right?” Nathan asked. “His temperature can’t be that high, can it?”

 “It’s high but I don’t think 104 degrees is unheard of,” Sylar said. “All we can do is keep an eye on it and try to prevent it from going any higher.” Why couldn’t he be the sick one? Peter would know what to do.

There wasn’t much more he could do for Peter right now and Sylar needed to keep busy. He organized the supplies he might need on the bedside table and dragged a chair over so he could keep watch. Then he went to the kitchen for a glass of water. Using a syringe and holding Peter upright so he wouldn’t choke, he forced small amounts of water into his mouth. Hydrating, covering Peter when he began to shiver and uncovering him to run a damp washcloth over him when he started to sweat again were the only treatments available. The rest was just time. 

Sylar awoke the next morning in all kinds of discomfort from sleeping in the chair. He hadn’t even undressed. Nathan was with him, quiet but watchful as Sylar stretched out his kinks and went through the routine of cooling and hydrating Peter and taking his temperature again. It hadn’t budged but at least it wasn’t any higher.

“I have a first-aid book around here somewhere,” he said, mostly to himself and also for Nathan’s benefit. He found the book on the one remaining shelf against the wall of his living room and flipped through to the part about fever. It was good to know he’d done everything right although Peter was going to need more than water. And then there was the problem, which the book didn’t cover, of getting him to eliminate. Sylar had an idea of how that worked though he didn’t relish the prospect. He’d try the old fashioned way first. Maybe if he sat Peter on the bowl and ran the tap, bodily autonomy would take over. He hoped so.

As he rushed from his apartment to get more supplies, including Gatorade, liquid meal replacements, and the dreaded catheter and enema bag, he found himself wishing Nathan were here for real and not just a presence in his head. Then somebody could stay with Peter while Sylar shopped. Now that was a cruel irony, to be desiring the flesh-and-blood company of the man he’d reduced to a virtual ghost. He would have liked to visit the library too because his medical reference book didn’t tell him how to care for someone in a coma. But he couldn’t leave Peter alone that long.

“You’re a good nurse, Sylar,” Nathan commented days later when Sylar was feeding Peter drop by drop with the syringe.

“Fuck you, Petrelli.”

“Nah, I meant it. No kidding.”

“Fuck you anyway,” Sylar said, tiredly pushing back his unwashed hair that kept falling across his forehead. It was a constant effort to withstand the surge of exhaustion that made him want to crawl into the bed beside Peter and sleep for an entire day.

Peter had been comatose and feverish for four days. He lay almost motionless on the bed though occasionally he thrashed his limbs and mumbled, talking to people who weren’t there and the one who was — two if Sylar counted Nathan, which he supposed he should. Operating mostly on instinct and common sense, Sylar fed Peter, kept him hydrated, cleaned him, did his best to manage the raging fever, changed Peter’s position to prevent bedsores and massaged him to keep his blood flowing. Between caretaking routines, he talked to Peter, just in case there was any alertness in his brain that would benefit from stimulation. “Told you I’d get you to read it,” he said, as he read aloud from his favorite novel, _Pillars of the Earth._

Ten days into the lonely vigil at Peter’s bedside, the fever spiked higher than ever, peaking at a terrifying 106. “It’s going to fry his brain!” Nathan said. “Not if I have anything to say about it,” Sylar insisted as he carried Peter to the bathtub and placed him in the tepid water. Within thirty minutes the temperature had dropped by a few degrees. Sylar dried, re-dressed Peter and put him back to bed, settling down in the chair for another long night. When the shivering returned, he pulled the blanket up to Peter’s chin and leaned forward in the chair to lay an arm over him. “Come on, Peter, fight this. Don’t you dare give up on me.”

“So, uh, what did you say your relationship with my brother was like?” Nathan asked.

“I didn’t say. I suppose it’s only fair for you to know. He's my … my friend. I don’t know if I’m his. I seem to have frightened him.” Sylar closed his eyes and silently willed his friend to live. If Nathan had any further thoughts on the matter, he kept them to himself.

The next morning, Peter opened his eyes for the first time in eleven days.

“Sylar,” he said, when he saw the taller man sitting across from him. “I don’t feel so good.”

“Shhh, it’s okay. Just rest.” Peter nodded and drifted off again. He had periods of intermittent wakefulness the rest of that day and his temperature was dropping. As Peter began to show signs of stirring again, Nathan made the request Sylar had known was coming.

“Let me talk to him, Sylar.”

“Tell me what you want to say and I’ll relay it to him.”

“I don’t want you to tell him. I want to talk to him as me. You’ve done it before.” Nathan insisted.

“Once. Years ago and it was a fluke.” If Sylar could manage it, he would. Not for Nathan but because it would give Peter comfort to see his brother. Though he’d long seen Nathan as a rival for Peter’s loyalty, even or perhaps especially in death, Sylar no longer bore the senator any ill will. Nathan would never be his favorite person; he was an arrogant asshole. But Sylar had learned over the years, through countless painful encounters with both brothers, that Nathan wasn’t going away, not from his mind nor Peter’s.

There _was_ no relationship between Peter and Sylar without Nathan maintaining his rightful role as beloved older brother. Peter would always look up to him, would always consider how Nathan might handle any given situation. Not that Peter would do as his brother did; Peter was his own person. But Nathan would always be Peter’s idea of home and Sylar no longer wished to disabuse Peter of that ideal. For Peter, he would try, no matter how much he hated the idea of giving his body and likeness over to the senior Petrelli.

Like a magic trick, the shift happened. Sylar was gone and in his place sat Nathan, dressed in charcoal grey suit pants and a white dress shirt, open at the neck with his sleeves rolled up to his forearms. Nathan immediately took one of his younger brother’s hands and held it between both of his own larger hands. He closed his eyes at the onslaught of memories the gesture called forth and marveled at this strange and wonderful ability of Sylar’s, this gift to be himself if only long enough to connect with his brother one last time.

“Hey Pete,” he said softly when Peter’s eyes flickered open.

“Nathan,” Peter said, with a sleepy smile that seemed only mildly surprised, as if dead brothers coming back to life was normal and it was only the unexpected timing that had caught him off guard. “How are you here? Is it really you? Is this a dream?”

“It’s really me, kid, courtesy of Sylar. No dream. You can thank him later. It’s good to see you. How do you feel? You had us worried.”

“Kinda like I’ve been hit by a truck. I’ve missed you. It’s been really hard without you. So much … to tell you. Later. I’m tired.”

“I know. I’ve missed you, too.”

“Hmm.“ Peter was fading already, his eyelids fluttering closed and then re-opening as he struggled to stay awake. “Was Matt here too? I thought I heard him. I didn’t want him to move me and then I started to feel sick. Did I dream that?”

“You must have. He’s not here.” Nathan answered.

“Oh alright. I’m sorry, Nathan. I can’t keep my eyes open.”

“It’s okay, go back to sleep. I can’t stay long anyway. I only wanted to tell you that I love you, Pete. I believe in you. Remember what I said...you can do anything. You’ve always been special.”

Peter’s eyelids had fallen closed again. “I love you, Nathan…” his words faded into a whisper as sleep claimed him once more.

Nathan rose from the chair and ran a hand over his sleeping brother’s hair, then bent to kiss his forehead the way he’d done since his brother was a baby. “Bye, Pete.”

He didn’t know where Sylar’s awareness went when he shapeshifted, if he were awake throughout or dormant somewhere deep in his mind, but Sylar seemed to know when it was time to return and Nathan could already feel him taking his body back. Nathan was ready.

***

Peter was too thin, weak and easily tired after his long illness. He needed physical therapy to regain his strength and since physical therapists were in short supply, Sylar played taskmaster — a role he enjoyed — and put Peter through his paces.

Peter had stopped to take a break from their walk in the park, dropping onto a park bench to rest. The leaves had returned to the trees and spring flowers were blooming, proving that time did march on here — although Sylar was well aware of that — and changes happened. “I haven’t said thank you, Sylar, for giving my brother back to me,” Peter said when Sylar sat beside him.  “It meant a lot for me to see him and talk to him again.”

“You’re welcome.” Sylar waved a hand dismissively as if it was nothing to shapeshift into the man you’d killed so that he could have a tete a tete with his brother who you’d been hoping would sleep with you again. “But don’t think you’re going to distract me with conversation. You have another quarter mile to walk before you can quit for the day.”

“When did you get your abilities back?”

“I haven’t. That’s the only one I’ve been able to use. It happened once, years ago, before you showed up and then again this time. Both were … accidents. I wasn’t in control of it.”

 Sylar watched Peter’s face as he digested that information. He knew what Peter would say next before the words formed on Peter’s lips. “You’ve —“

“Yes, I've tried,” Sylar interjected. “The other abilities, not that one. No offense, Peter, but I don’t want to be him.”

Peter gazed off into the distance. “That’s okay, Sylar. No offense but you’re not him.”

“So you’ve told me. Many times.”

“I didn’t say that to hurt you,” Peter said, glancing over and then away again. “It’s just true.”

***

 

Sylar made up his mind that he would give Peter Nathan’s journals that night. A memory that wasn’t his, of reading bedtime storybooks, flashed in his mind’s eye. The journals were a poor substitute for the real thing but it was all he had to offer.

“You’re telling me you’ve had these all along and you never shared them with me?” Peter asked, his eyes traveling from the bound notebooks to Sylar while Sylar explained the books’ significance.

“I had part of it,” Sylar said. “It wasn’t finished. We — uh, I wrote the rest here, recently.” 

“ _You_ wrote?” Peter’s forehead wrinkled as his brows went up. What that expression meant, exactly, Sylar couldn’t be sure. Surprise? Indignation? The first gathering clouds of a storm on the horizon? He was already too far along to backtrack so he plowed on through.

“Yes. The parts where he — where I —“ Sylar sighed in frustration at his inability to articulate what Peter already knew from painful history. Did he really have to say it, that even though he was unequivocally _not_ Nathan, as Peter had made crystal clear, there had been a time when everyone had thought that he was, in fact, Senator Nathan Petrelli? That he, Sylar, had thought so, too?

“It’s complicated, Peter. Just read them. If that’s what you want to do. Or burn them. Or put them in a drawer for whenever you’re ready. They’re yours, not mine. I thought you should have them,” he finished, with a dip of his head to indicate that he had no idea what the correct protocol was here.

Peter held Sylar’s gaze before looking at the books on the table. “Alright,” he said quietly and the impending storm passed, for now. Peter took the books with him when he went to bed - Sylar’s bed, alone. Sylar slept on the couch.

Sylar was in the kitchen making coffee when Peter emerged from the shower the next morning. They exchanged a greeting and that was all they said to each other for hours. Peter read the journals over coffee and toast while Sylar made himself as invisible as he could. When he couldn’t manufacture any more chores to keep himself out of Peter’s way, he said he was going out for groceries.

When Sylar returned from his errand, the notebooks were on the coffee table. Peter was napping on the couch. Sylar wondered how far Peter had read but he wasn’t going to ask. He made lunch and waited for Peter to wake up. They didn’t talk much over lunch until Peter asked if it was time for his physical therapy. For the next hour they ran through the exercises Peter had devised for himself and had put Sylar in charge of monitoring. The routine was that they’d work on strengthening and stretching activities and then take a brisk walk. Peter was already considerably stronger but not yet back to normal.

“Sylar,” Peter said while they walked uptown this time for a change of scenery. “Have you given thought to what you’ll do when we get out of here? After we take care of the carnival, I mean.”

“The thought has crossed my mind,” Sylar said, evading the fact that he hadn’t believed they were getting out of here and he still wasn’t convinced there was an end in sight. “I have a feeling you're asking for a reason and not idle curiosity. What about you? Will you go back to your job as an EMT?” He scanned the familiar storefronts and building facades with their intricate stonework as they headed north. It would be time to turn around soon.

“Yeah, for awhile, if they’ll have me,” Peter said. “I haven’t been the most reliable employee but I’m good at my job and when I’m there, I’m dedicated. Good paramedics are always in demand, because of the burnout factor.”

Sylar nodded to show he was listening. He could sense the machinery whirring in Peter’s brain and had the notion that ideas were falling into place and that some of them involved him. Why else would Peter bring up the topic? Peter was tiring now, the fatigue evident in the drooping of his eyelids and the tense set of his jaw, so the rest of the conversation would have to wait. They walked back to the apartment in silence 

That evening, Sylar brought a mug of tea to Peter’s bedside and sat down in the chair he’d never moved back into the living room.

“Don’t spill it,” he said with a dark look as he handed the mug to Peter.

Peter chuckled. “Don’t want me parading around shirtless again, huh?”

 Sylar’s eyes were riveted on Peter. Was he flirting? “Are you still afraid of me? Can you ever forgive me? You have to see that I’ve changed.”

“I’m trying,” Peter said. He set the tea down on the bedside table, scooted across the narrow mattress and flipped the covers back. The invitation in Peter’s action was unmistakable and the soft but steady focus of his eyes on Sylar confirmed it. Sylar didn’t wait to be asked twice. He climbed into bed beside Peter. 

“You still want me then? You’re sure?” Sylar asked, as he sank into the mattress and reached for Peter. His mouth found Peter’s neck first, then his ear, and onto his collarbone. “Oh I want you,” Peter said and his hands guided Sylar’s head upward to kiss.

The sex was far less wild than their first time. Sylar was careful with Peter because he was still recovering and didn’t have the stamina for an acrobatic romp. An all-nighter was not on the agenda but Sylar was satisfied to have Peter in his bed under any circumstances. He held himself in reserve to take care of Peter first and the eroticism of Peter’s face as he climaxed  — eyes closed, hair artfully disheveled, mouth open and breathing hard — was enough to bring Sylar along. He clenched handfuls of Peter’s hair in his hands as the orgasm rolled through him. Sylar had never been verbally demonstrative in bed but sex with Peter was unlike it had ever been with other partners and as he peaked, the words slipped out without Sylar’s permission. “Oh god I love you, Peter. Ohhh…” He groaned at the end and then his body relaxed and his head dropped onto to the pillow. “Oh, I am so fucked.”

***

Sylar was relieved when nothing was said about his declaration in the heat of the moment. Peter had to know that it didn’t mean anything. It was just sex talk. The other topic that was left undisturbed was Nathan’s journal. Sylar hadn’t seen Peter reading it since that first morning after he’d given the notebooks to him. Had Peter even finished it? He didn’t ask and Peter didn’t volunteer. After a few more days of working to regain his strength, Peter returned to the wall. Their previous routine of meeting at the wall in the morning resumed, now that Peter was back to sleeping at his own place, even on nights when he and Sylar slept together. Peter would crawl out of bed in the dark, put his clothes on and tiptoe out. He didn’t appear to know or perhaps he didn’t care that Sylar was awake to watch him go. It was frustrating how little had changed — Peter’s mission to save Emma and countless others from the carnival was still paramount, he spent most of his days trying to smash through the brick wall, he hadn’t forgiven Sylar and he acted as if he were tolerating Sylar, the terrifying killer who had taken his brother’s life, among others. It was only in bed that Sylar felt the connection he’d sought for so long and those moments were fleeting.

About a week after resuming their old routine, Sylar arrived at the wall one morning and Peter wasn’t there. He sat on the ground with his knees drawn up, waiting. Peter wasn’t usually late. A tap on his shoulder revealed Peter’s presence and as Sylar turned toward the tap, a package landed in his lap from the other direction.

“Happy birthday,” Peter said when Sylar looked up at him.

“It’s not my birthday.” The package in Sylar’s lap was wrapped in the comics section of a newspaper. He tore open the paper to find a new copy of _Pillars of The Earth_.

“I know. I saw this and — “ Peter shrugged. “Your old copy was falling apart.”

“Thank you, Peter. That’s very kind of you.”

“You’re welcome, Sylar. I appreciate you...being patient with me. Keeping me sane.”

 Peter had picked up the sledgehammer by this time and was wielding it in preparation to bludgeon the wall.

"You know what’s funny,” Sylar said. “Every time you pick up that sledgehammer, I feel like you’re going to hit me with it. Really hard." 

"Hmm, that is funny,” Peter agreed. “Because every time I pick this thing up, I feel like I want to hit you with it too. Really hard."

“Why?”

Peter sighed. “Because you are who you are.” It wasn’t the sledgehammer but it was still a blow to Sylar. After all this time, they were still at square one.

“I’ve changed,” Sylar protested. “I’ve repented. I’m never going to hurt anyone ever again. You have to know I’m not that guy anymore, Peter.”

“I know you’re not,” Peter said. He hit the wall — really hard — and for the first time in five years, a section of brick chipped away. Peter and Sylar exchanged shocked glances and then Sylar grabbed a sledgehammer, too, and both men slammed the wall with everything they had.

 ***

 On their first night back in the real world, Peter and Sylar were each deep in contemplation of the evening’s events. Everything had happened as Peter’s dream had predicted. They had foiled Samuel’s plan to bury thousands of people in some sort of earth-shaking cataclysm. Now with the adrenaline fading, Sylar remembered with pride how he had placed his hand on Peter’s chest and said “Trust me.” And Peter had done it. He’d let Sylar, newly powerful once more, walk away, out of his sight. After everyone was safe and the commotion Claire had caused by leaping off the Ferris wheel was playing out, they had found Emma again and put her in a cab. Before going, she had kissed Sylar’s cheek and called him her hero.

It was a feeling Sylar couldn’t put words to. He had prided himself many times on his abilities, his intellect, his way of knowing how things worked. Even his snarky sarcasm was a source of internal swagger— he was good at having the last word. But none of those things were who he was. It was an accident of fate that he was intelligent and quick-witted. Even his ability had come to him at random. This? Tonight? It was what he did that mattered. He had a choice and he could be better than he was. He realized that one act does not a hero make, but it was a damn good start. 

Yet as good as he felt about his part in the evening’s events, there were things he was unsure about. The dream hadn’t predicted everything. Claire’s high-flying circus act was a complete surprise, although in retrospect it was what Claire had been building up to from the start. Nothing in the dream had foretold what would happen next. Would Peter abandon him now that he’d fulfilled his role? Sylar didn’t think so; after all, he was here in the guy’s apartment. But Peter had been distant with him since receiving Nathan’s journals. Or was it because of that night Sylar had made a fool of himself in bed? 

They had continued to sleep together, and in bed, Peter was a generous and affectionate partner. It was just that he hadn’t let his guard down and Sylar didn’t like being uncertain about where he stood. Evidently, Peter trusted him — he’d as much as said so at the wall and it was that declaration that had caused the wall to crumble. It was almost embarrassing how Parkman’s unbreakable mind-prison was nothing but a lame metaphor, complete with a brick wall to symbolize Peter’s lack of forgiveness. It made no sense that Peter’s recalcitrance to forgive should doom him to entrapment in equal measure with Sylar’s crimes but that was typical of Parkman’s mind-games. There was no nuance. Peter had shown trust when he left Sylar to his own devices at the carnival and he’d been rewarded with Sylar carrying out his mission just as Peter had asked him to all those years ago.

But. Trust wasn’t the same as forgiveness. Sylar suspected that for all of Peter’s faith in his ability to change, Peter was holding back. Even after seeing the theory of Sylar’s redemption that he had pushed for so long finally brought to life, Peter was guarded. The question was why.

Peter broke into Sylar’s contemplation. “You know Claire’s action tonight changes everything, don’t you?”

Sylar was cross-legged on the floor because Peter’s apartment had no couch. He looked over to Peter, who was seated at the kitchen table, with an empty glass that he was examining intently.

“Do you mean it changes the way everything was before we were trapped or it changes what you thought things were going to be like when we got out?” Sylar asked.

“Both. Either way, Claire outing herself and the existence of specials reinforces an idea I had about what I want to do.” He put down the glass and came over to sit across from Sylar.

Sylar remembered Peter asking him not that long ago about what his plans were for when they were free. “Yes, we never did get around to finishing that conversation.”

“Sylar, are you familiar with the concept of restorative justice?” Peter asked.

“It’s not a term I’ve ever heard but I can intuit its meaning from the words. What’s your idea?”

“I came across restorative justice when I was trying to — well anyway, I researched it and it’s like I’ve said to you in the past. Punishment doesn't work. It never has. Parkman thought you deserved to be punished when he locked you in your worst nightmare. He was wrong. Never mind that it wasn’t his right to be the judge, jury and executioner, punishment doesn’t bring about justice. All it does is offer retribution for victims and the ones being punished feel persecuted and angry. Restorative justice is an attempt to create healing, for everyone.”

“Uh huh,” Sylar said, curious to hear where this was going although he had an inkling.

“So the first thing that needs to happen is that I think you have to stand trial,” Peter said. “The way it would work — “

Sylar cut him off. “What?! That’s your plan? Go to hell, Peter.” He shot to his feet and stalked away, outraged at the turn the conversation was taking. Should he leave? “No, wait,” Peter was already on his feet and right behind him. 

Ignoring Peter, Sylar headed to the door before thinking better of storming out after considering the media attention to Claire’s outing of specials. Instead he slammed the flat of his hand against the door, heedless of disturbing nearby neighbors.

From behind him, a gentle hand came to rest on Sylar’s shoulder blade. “Sylar. Please. Hear me out.”

Sylar spun, knocking Peter’s hand away. “I’ve had three years of solitary confinement which I’m sure you know is considered cruel and unusual punishment in any form. You just said punishment doesn't work but you want to give me more of it?” His eyebrows met as he drilled his furious gaze into Peter, hoping to make the smaller man back the fuck away, but knowing it was futile to think his persistent companion would ever give up without a fight. And Sylar didn’t want to fight. He was so tired of fighting, especially with Peter. 

“I want to create an institute, to help people like us. You never had any trouble controlling your abilities but lots of us have. And even if you didn’t struggle with control, haven’t you told me you felt alone with the hunger? Didn’t you wish someone would have helped you instead of setting you up and later capturing and torturing you the way the company did?”

 “Yes, of course. So what?”

 “Well, the institute would do that. It would be totally voluntary.”

“Great. Knock yourself out. What does that have to do with me and standing trial?”

“Don’t you get it, Sylar? I need you to help me. I can’t do this alone.”

“Fucking Peter Petrelli famous last words:  I can’t do this alone.”

“C’mon buddy. Don’t be like that.” Peter reached out with both hands to grasp Sylar’s biceps though there was no force to it. It was more like a caress. 

“You agreed to help me save Emma and you asked me to help you, remember? I want to help. I’ve been trying — and I admit, some of my ideas sucked — “

“They all sucked, Peter.”

“Okay fine. You’re right. But this, I think it’s a good one. Look, there are going to be people out there, other specials, alone and on the run, like you were. They’re going to commit crimes. And if we don’t help them? Then the police, or the government, probably both, will get involved and that’s not just going to be bad for them. It’ll implicate anyone with abilities. You know what comes after that, right? Rounding people up, places like Level 5 — all the shit the company did on a much larger scale.”

Peter was using every weapon at his disposal, from the very strength of his argument, to the warming touch of his hands, to the pleading puppy dog eyes, to the fire of his faith and conviction shining from those eyes. Sylar was weakening.

“Sylar, come sit down with me. I’m asking you to listen and if you don’t agree, you can walk out that door and never look back, alright?”

“Fine.” Sylar muttered, huffing out a sigh. He shuffled across the barren apartment and settled himself on the floor again with Peter facing him.

“The main reason for the trial is we’re going to need a whole team of specials to pull this off,” Peter explained, and Sylar could tell Peter was getting more excited about the topic the way he was moving his hands and body. “We’ll need people like that Rebel kid to find and communicate with specials in ways that the government can’t trace. And other people using their abilities to shield our activity. Can you imagine anyone helping us once they find out about you?”

“So I stand trial by a jury of my peers — other specials, is that it?” The idea still made him uncomfortable but not as much as if it were going to be a real trial. If this was what it took to keep what he had now, after all of his effort to change, then so be it. There was no way he was going to be alone again.

“Yes! Exactly!” Peter’s voice boomed in the empty apartment and his smile was bright enough to make the sun give up and go home. It made the ache in Sylar’s chest flare. “If we can show that you’ve been tried and that you’re making restitution — that’s the sentencing part of restorative justice — then they’ll be more likely to trust us and if any of them have committed crimes, they’ll see you as a model, a way forward for them.”

Sylar was beginning to warm to the idea with a grudging sense of admiration for Peter to have developed this plan. Peter had put a lot of thought into this; that’s what all those hours at the library were about.

“And it helps you, too. You want forgiveness, right? This gives you a chance to make things as right as they could ever be. You can’t undo the past but you can make a better future. That would be part of your sentence, to commit yourself to the cause.”

“I don’t give a rat’s ass about anyone’s forgiveness but yours, Peter. It’s a good plan, though. It could work. You can be brilliant when you put your mind to something.”

“Thank you,” Peter said, blushing. “Let’s talk some more tomorrow. Right now, I need to sleep. Aren’t you tired?”

“Not as tired as you are. I have regeneration, remember?”

“Oh yeah. It’s weird, isn’t it, to have abilities again after so long without them? Well, I’m going to bed.” Peter’s brows went up as he asked whether Sylar was staying.

“Only if you want me to.”

“I do. Stay.”

By the time Sylar had finished washing up, Peter was already asleep, curled up on his side and facing the window. He had thoughtfully left room for Sylar. Sylar settled in beside Peter, craving the comfort of intimacy though he knew Peter needed to sleep. He settled for watching the gentle rise and fall of his friend’s back and eventually the drowsy rhythm relaxed him enough to sleep, too.  


***

Over coffee the next morning, Sylar broached the topic of forgiveness again, in a roundabout sort of way.

“There’s something I need to know. Did you read Nathan’s journals?”

Peter bristled at the mention of his brother’s diary.

“I read them,” he said flatly, cutting his eyes in Sylar’s direction briefly.

“And?” Sylar raised an eyebrow.

“They answer some questions, raise others. Do we really need to do this now? There’s no food here and I’m starving. And we’ve got work to do.” He sipped his coffee and grimaced. There was no milk in the fridge nor any sugar in the cupboard so black coffee was the default.

“Yes, we need to do this. You don’t know what I went through to —“

“What _you_ went through?” Peter set the coffee cup down. He’d need his hands free to emote, Sylar thought although he refrained from rolling his eyes. It wouldn't help his case right now. “Those were Nathan’s journals,” Peter said.

“And I lived alone for three years with his memories. That makes me involved. You’ve been on guard since I gave them to you.” Sylar shifted in his seat to put both feet on the floor, drawing himself up higher in the chair.  “If we’re going to work together—at the very least— ”

“Okay fine,” Peter interjected. “It felt good...healing... to read the journals and learn what my brother really thought. So thank you for that. I never doubted he loved me but I didn’t always think he liked or respected me. He had a way sometimes of making me feel like a dumb kid. Except for that time at Pinehearst I didn’t think Nathan was trying to hurt me deliberately. That was just collateral damage and I didn’t think he cared as long as he got what he wanted. I’m grateful to know that wasn’t true.”

“But?” Sylar prompted.

“I’m really angry with you. You could have given them to me earlier and spared me a lot of suffering.” Peter rose from the table, took another swig of coffee and began pacing. Sylar didn’t think it was the caffeine. “I think I know why you kept them from me. It’s a shitty reason. And I’m pretty sure your reasons for giving them to me at all were less than selfless.”

“Really? You think you know my reasons….Let’s hear your theory then.” Sylar turned his body to follow Peter with his eyes.

“You were jealous and you wanted me to think badly of him. It was like this competition and you were going to convince me that you were better than him. Then you’d really have the last laugh at my brother’s expense.” Peter stopped in front of a section of wall that was covered in pinholes and traced them with a finger. 

“That’s close to the truth but not quite. But go on, let’s hear the rest.” Sylar couldn't fault Peter’s analysis of his past behavior. He certainly hadn’t wanted to let on then what his true motive had been for trying to take the elder Petrelli down a few pegs. Hell he might not have known himself why he was doing it.

“After you told me about Elle I was having second thoughts about our rel — uh ...sleeping together. You thought as long as I might believe you were capable of killing again, I wasn’t going to be able to forgive you...or get back in bed with you. So you gave them to me as a gesture of goodwill because you knew when I read them he would be redeemed in my eyes. You being willing to make Nathan look good when you hated him — that would prove I could trust you. Right?” Peter turned to stare him down.

“Something like that.” Sylar said, making fleeting eye contact. He couldn’t help the hurt that flared in his body at Peter’s words. How could Peter believe that this was all just a manipulation for sex? In the past, he wouldn’t have bothered to try changing Peter’s mind. He might have made a sarcastic comment or said something nasty to provoke Peter into fighting with him. But now he wanted to know why he was even here if that was what Peter thought.

“So you think I just want to fuck you? And you’re okay with that arrangement? Maybe you’re the one who’s in it for sex. There are other people now, you know, and I’m sure you can have your pick. You don’t need to keep me around as your boy toy.”

“Sylar,” Peter said softly. “You know I care about you.” He stepped closer and his hand came up but Sylar moved his chair — and himself — out of reach. He didn’t want to give Peter a chance to use his patented empath touch to defuse the tension. Fuck him, let him stew.

“That’s the first time you’ve said so. I don’t want to be your project.” Sylar got out of his chair but now that he was up, he wasn’t sure where he wanted to go. He just wanted to hide from the stupid way he was feeling right now. How nice that Peter _cared._ It was milquetoast and almost meaningless and not what Sylar wanted him to say, damn him. He leaned against the wall and folded his arms like he didn’t give a shit what happened next and was just curious to know how it would turn out.

“You’re more than that,” Peter said, finally standing still and looking at Sylar with sorrowful eyes. “I’m here, okay? I’m with you...but it’s still hard for me, alright? Why don’t you tell me your side of it if my version is only ‘close to the truth.’”

Sylar stayed where he was but his body relaxed a little. “I was competing with him, you’re right about that. But not for the reasons you think. I’d planned to give them to you long before I told you about Elle. I’m not going to kill you if you decide you don’t want to sleep with me again. Like I said, I’m not that guy anymore. If you want us to go our separate ways, I’ll still send you a card on Christmas and your birthday,” he said with a half-hearted smirk that he didn’t really feel.

“The point is I really do want your trust and forgiveness. I also want you to sleep with me. For me, they aren’t related.”

“I do trust you, Sylar,” Peter said, “and I don’t want you to leave. Forgiveness is ... harder.”

“I know it is, Peter.” Sylar stuffed his hands in his pockets and studied the floor. There wasn’t much else to look at in this barren apartment other than the man standing across from him and the goddamn puppy dog eyes were killing him.

“That’s why I gave you the journals. I wanted to knock him off his pedestal until I realized I couldn’t win you over by ruining your faith in him. He believed in you and I hoped if you could see that…I know. I’m still making it about me.” He looked at Peter with a small shrug and let his eyes wander the room. This conversation wasn’t easy for either of them. 

“No, it’s okay.” Peter said, stepping closer. He made no move to touch but he angled his head to get into Sylar’s field of vision. Did he know how that face of his was Sylar’s undoing? He had to know. Sylar tried to avoid eye contact but Peter was having none of it. “I underestimated you, Sylar. That’s the best gift anyone’s given me. I can see that you hoped to benefit but you didn’t attach any strings.” 

One corner of Peter’s mouth was tilting upward as he shook his head. “I thought you were manipulating me and you were just trying to show me I was loved.”

“Yes.” Sylar mustered the courage to look his friend full in the face. “Not just by Nathan,” he said in a soft voice. “That’s what I wanted to show you.”

 

###

:-)

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
